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darklydeliciousdesires · 6 months ago

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Sky Full of Stars - Chapter Seven.

Second update is here, besties! This is basically shaping up to be a novel, the 20th chapter just begun in the writing and I am loving every last second of creating their story! Just to note, too, the song Picses that is mentioned is a real song, by the band Jinjer, the musical claim for Jade's voice and Seventh Gate on a whole. Give it a listen, it's beautiful.

Big thanks to my tiny audience for your commitment to reading. I see a few of you liking it but remaining quiet. I would so love to hear from you, if you'd be so kind to drop a little comment, and even better, add a reblog to help me get a bit more exposure. Thanks guys :)

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six

Tag list - In the comments

Words - 4,047

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI!

“Ahh, he has arrived. Dogs, come on. This show of frenzy is not becoming of you.”

Patrick Brody; he could never just greet someone with a simple hello, letting his son into the house on Christmas morning. He at least gave Adrien a big hug while he was being dived all over by two very excitable Pit Bull terriers, though.

“Merry Christmas, pop,” he spoke with affection, his dad nodding and smiling.

“Same extended in return. Now, your mother is in the kitchen, if you will excuse me, I am slowly working myself through what’s left of my Tanqueray while I ruminate on Keats and a little Joy Division. It’s great to see you, though. I’ll be out when the food is done.”

Ahh, he was in one of his moods, chasing a slither of melancholy. Why he’d chosen Christmas morning to do such was beyond Adrien, but he was used to the strange habits of his fiercely intellectual father. The last time he’d visited, it was Sangria paired with The Rolling Stones and a book on the art of John Williams Waterhouse.

Truly, there was nobody like his father. Or his mother.

“Is that my boy?”

“Sure is,” Adrien called, placing the large bag of gifts he’d brought beneath the tree in the lounge, walking down to the kitchen to see her emerge, her arms held wide. “Merry Christmas, ma.”

“Merry Christmas, my love,” she spoke, pulling him into a hug. “Is your father still absconding?”

“He is,” he confirmed, giving the dogs a little more attention before following her down the hall.

“You know, I thought he’d get out of that whole tortured artist bit when he hit thirty,” Lois voiced, hurrying back into the kitchen to check on the gaggle of pots occupying the stove. “Never damned well happened!” Turning the burners down, she glided to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of wine with raised eyebrows. “I got this or beer? Up to you.”

“I’ll take a beer, but let me, mom. You have enough to do, or I can stir something?” He made a move off the high stool, watching his mother race towards him, waving her hands.

“You will stay away from the cooker, Adrien Nicholas Brody!” she warned, unscrewing the top and handing him the bottle. “You’re a liability.”

His face was a picture of affronted. “Says the woman who’s set fire to her own hair how many times?”

Pointing at him, she waved her finger, starting to laugh softly in spite of herself. “Fucking smart ass, is what you are.”

“I get it from you, ma,” he teased, reaching for Ginsberg’s giant head when the dog made it clear he required further petting, Bukowski pottering around in the hallway, shaking the hell out of a brand-new chew toy. Moving over to the balcony, he turned the key and slid the door, letting himself out into the cold Christmas morning, lighting up a cigarette.

“Still smoking, huh?” his mother observed, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t start bitching. Not with how many you used to chain a day,” he warned, raising an eyebrow.

Picking up her wine, she felt confident to leave the food for five minutes, joining him out on the balcony. “Wasn’t going to. I could do with one. Gimme.” Rummaging in his pocket, he pulled the pack out, Lois taking one and leaning to the light he offered, the smell of the lighter fluid mixing pleasantly with the tobacco. Taking a long drag, she immediately looked more blissful.

“Oh, full tar. Good boy,” she sighed, kissing his shoulder as she rubbed his arm.

“Not my choice, I stole them from my girlfriend,” he confessed, watching her eyes widen.

“Excuse me, son of mine?” Her exclamation was coupled with the usual wild gesticulating, arms flying expressively. “Girlfriend, you just drop that in there casually, that there’s a girlfriend on the scene now?”

He laughed softly through his nose, looking out across the white landscape below. “Yeah, there’s a girlfriend. It’s been three and a half months now.”

Lois wound her hand expectantly. “And? Name, age, what does she do? Please don’t tell me it’s another bullshit model who doesn’t know shit from Shinola. I can’t bear the idea of you bringing another pretty dullard into my goddamned house!”

“You liked Sofia,” he protested.

“Sofia was well read, she was interested in other cultures, she’d travelled. She was an anomaly. Anyway, we don’t talk about her any longer! Tell me about the girl,” she demanded, her eyes full of excitement.

“Her name is Jade, she’s thirty-one, and she’s the vocalist for a band called Seventh Gate. And she acts as well.”

Lois paused, her wine glass almost reaching her mouth, her other hand moving to grip, and then softly shake his forearm. “You’re dating Jade Burton?”

Wait. How did his mother even know who she was? “Hold on, you know who she is?”

Her finger thrust towards the kitchen, her entire arm waving. “That new canvas I have out in the hallway? I painted that listening to Black Electric Wasteland.”

Their second album, but how... how did his mother know that? “Who are you, and what have you done with Lois?”

“Oh, come on! You know I listen to rock! I’ve got Sabbath and Def Leopard albums in my collection,” she exclaimed, taking another drag on her cigarette.

“Yeah, but Seventh Gate is way heavier than that. It’s the musical equivalent of having a safe dropped on your head.”

She snorted into her wine glass. “And how the hell do you know? You only listen to music made by fellas with gold teeth who wear jeans nine sizes too big!”

He couldn’t help but snort a laugh at that. “Because that’s how I met her. I got talked to going to the Rock and Iron festival with Lewis while I was in LA. The first time I met Jade was when she jumped onto the barrier and screamed about in an inch from my face.” That particular revelation delighted his mother, imagining it. He went on to explain a little more, how he’d met her properly backstage, thought she was incredible and swiftly decided in a moment of madness to join the tour for a week.

“Good for you, god! You didn’t do anything like this in your teens, you were always so focused. Why not in your thirties? And look what came of it, you’re dating a legend! Oh, mother of pearl, that girl’s voice!” Flicking her finished cigarette over the rail, she bustled back inside, locating her phone and swiping around, putting it in the dock and pressing play. “I love this song. Pisces. Please tell me you’ve heard it?”

He had, since it had been in their setlist on tour. They stood silently as they listened to the opening bars, Lois softly singing along to the melodic opening, clasping a hand to her chest. “I adore her! All of them, such talented girls!”

Adrien was still stuck in the realms of huge surprise that his mother had not only heard of Seventh Gate, but was a fan, too, when the kitchen door opened, his father walking in.

“Interesting harmonies, and the chord progression is stunning work. Who is this?”

“Adrien’s girlfriend and her band. They’re the girls whose music inspired my painting!” Lois replied with enthusiasm, continuing to softly sing as her husband topped up his gin. “You’ll never believe what he did, Patrick. Meets her at a show and then, he just hops on a tour bus with her for a week. Just like that!”

His father paused, eyebrows raised. “You and five women absconded to a bus for a week,” he mused, sipping his gin. “A lesser man might make a joke about such setting tongues wagging, but it feels a little too low brow.” Another sip of gin was taken. “How is your tongue, by the way?”

Patrick Brody; he was a man entirely too witty for his own good.

Adrien closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. “You’re fucking terrible.”

“I’m an effervescent delight. And you? You’ve now officially cemented yourself as a groupie.” Closing the fridge, he stood for a moment, tapping his foot as he continued to listen. “Yes. I like it, mmhmm.”

Adrien couldn’t help but grin. “Just wait for the chorus.”

His dad looked curious for all of five seconds, before the tempo changed drastically, both musically and vocally. “What in the?” he exclaimed, wide eyed, scratching his chin. “That’s a woman?”

“Yep,” Adrien confirmed, “that’s my girl.”

He listened a little longer, sipping his drink. “Does she need a priest? It sounds like she has a demon.”

Immediately, Lois pointed at the door. “Get out of my kitchen at once, you lousy philistine!” Their little double act had their only child laughing quietly, thinking his dad truly wasn’t all too wrong. After all, he’d likened that ripsaw roar to something hell had spat up too upon first hearing it. “When can I meet her?”

He knew he’d have that question directed at him sooner rather than later. “I’ll arrange something with her and get back to you. I have five weeks before I’m away again, we can come over one afternoon, or meet you guys in the city?”

“I’d love that, yes. So, tell me more about her, then,” she requested, her eyes lighting up. She could see it so clearly, how smitten her son was. “She’s British, isn’t she?”

“British-Sicilian. She was born in Palermo. Arrived three months earlier than expected while her mom was over there visiting family, backpacking with her dad.”

“Oh!” she cried, resting a hand to her chest. “She was a little preemie baby? How dear.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “almost didn’t make it, weighed about three pounds when she was born. I like to think she defied all the odds stacked against her, though.” He smiled, thinking of her fortitude, her toughness to do the job that she did, and at the standard she did it. “She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”

Lois studied him for a moment, beginning to nod. Finally, he’d met the one who she sensed wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry. “I’m going to love her, aren’t I?”

Watching that sly smile, he looked away for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. You really, really are.” She left all talk of the new girl there, going back to the cooker and inquiring over how everything else was in her son’s life as she stirred and tinkered.

Meanwhile, over in Harlem, Jade found herself in a similar surrounding. Except in her family, you pitched in, or you got the hell out of the way.

“Steven!” Gemma yelled, her husband jumping a foot in the air. “If I have told you once, I have told you a million times, stop stealing the turkey skin!”

“Why? You don’t like it, Rachel is a fussy vegan, Jade doesn’t care, and Marco isn’t even here. Allow a man to have his simple pleasures, my little snap dragon,” he teased, winking when his daughters began to laugh, Jade making a snappy motion with her hand towards the back of her mother’s head. It was very weird, for her brother not to be there, this year staying in LA with his new boyfriend, Jack and his family.

“Your parents like it, and I finally have the skin nice and crisp, so it’ll give your mother one less thing to complain about,” she replied, physically hip bumping Jade down a little as she poured cream into the potatoes, ready to mash into a pulp.

“Go, go on, out of my way!”

“You called me in to carve the bird, Gemma,” he reminded her, taking the large knife the younger of his daughter’s passed over to him.

“Well then do it instead of standing there slowly making a start on eating it!”

Jade quickly finished her potato-based endeavours, reaching for the bottle of scotch on the side, topping up her mother’s glass and adding ice from the fridge dispenser. “Mum, drink that before you give yourself a heart attack and thus make dad have to work on his day off.”

“Open heart surgery on the tiles with a carving knife,” he chimed, examining the blade. “I think I could make do.”

The family all paused to laugh, Gemma taking the drink passed to her gratefully, wrapping her arm around her daughter’s waist. “Thanks, buba.” Taking a sip, she then widened her eyes. “Rachel!” Check what time we’re on. I need to put the beans on at the very last minute, so they don’t overcook.”

“Can’t, mama. My phone is in the lounge.”

“Check mine,” Jade spoke, “It’s on the counter.”

Illuminating the screen, Rachel took in the time, as well as something else notable. “It’s two twenty-one, and sis, why do you have a picture of Adrien Brody as your screen lock? Are you fangirling?”

“No,” she beamed, “but I am dating him. That’s the news I had to share before I got wrapped up in the Christmas chaos.”

Immediately, her right eardrum was almost blown out. “What the utter bloody hell, Jade Lucia? You’re... and... seriously? Adrien Brody, really?”

“Mum, you’re making it sound like he has two heads, or like I have. I’m not sure which is worse,” she chirped, reaching for her wine and taking a big gulp.

Gemma nudged her with a soft elbow. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it! So, come on. Tell us everything!”

“Not everything,” her dad mumbled, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I wanna know everything,” Rachel piped up, nodding towards the door. “Get out, dad. I wanna hear if he’s good in bed or not.”

He instantly looked mildly mortified, scrunching his eyes tightly shut. “Pretending I didn’t hear that,” he sang, shaking his head, “wishing you were still two and six instead of these grown women who let penises near you.”

Jade almost choked on her wine for her laughter, Steven finishing his very neat and precise carving, nothing less than anybody expected for a surgeon to accomplish. “I am leaving you to your women’s talk. I shall be in the lounge, eating my nougat.”

As soon as he was gone, two sets of eyes turned to her. “Tell us everything!” they both spoke at once, Gemma especially excited as she bounced on her heels a little. Her darling mother still had that silliness of youth about her, a very young fifty. With preparations all done for the moment, they stood and listened as Jade regaled them with the story, even grabbing her phone to show them the picture taken literally at the exact moment they’d first met, Jade bellowing a scream right in his face.

“What, so he just blew off his commitments and got on a bus with you?” her mother cried, sipping her drink, looking absolutely delighted.

“He did, and yeah. We fell in love,” she confessed, beaming as they cooed, Rachel moving to hug her.

“That’s about the cutest thing I’ve ever heard! Aww!” she spoke, kissing her sister’s cheek fondly. “You’re keeping it quiet, I gotta say. Haven’t seen any pictures of you guys together in the press or anything.”

“Well, we haven’t been out together much,” she admitted, fiddling with her necklace, one he bought for her three days previously when he came back into the city. “There have been a couple, though.” A little lament sounded in her sigh, knowing of course it would happen sooner or later, being that she was relatively well known, and Adrien of course very famous. “Thank fuck there wasn’t any after what happened with Jen. Nobody got pictures of him there, which I’m glad of. I don’t want anything like that possibly impacting him negatively.”

Gemma’s eyes widened. “He was there when it happened?”

Gulping at the memory of that terrifying day, she fortified herself with a mouthful of wine. “He was. He’s the one who found her. He saved her life.”

The eldest of the Burton women let out a little gasp, covering her mouth with her hand. “God above, I can’t imagine how I’d react.”

“Horrible as it was for him, he was probably the best person to find her,” she admitted, “he’s very steady and pragmatic, very calm. He doesn’t get flustered easily at all. I doubt any of us would have thought to check for her stash, Jess’s weed too and get rid of it so nobody got arrested and made an already nightmarish situation a thousand times worse.”

“What a good guy, wow. And how is my beautiful Jen now?” Gemma asked. Jen had always been her favourite, looking at the kitchen table and being able to picture her there, drumming upon the surface with a couple of pencils as a gawky, fifteen-year-old kid with bright pink hair. That very brownstone was where Seventh Gate had begun, their rehearsals confined to the basement, the girls all coming over after school every day to practice for hours.

Jade smiled, remembering her last phone call with her. “She’s doing okay. The first week withdrawing was hell, but better than it could have been since she wasn’t a long-term, substantial user. She’s doing the twenty-eight-day program but is open to staying longer if she feels like she needs to.”

Feeling a little teary, she took a breath, stilling the little emotional vortex that began to swirl. Of course, true to her nature, she only let herself feel it momentarily before she hardened herself. “I’m so proud of her. She was just like, ‘I have a problem and I need to get help in fixing it, because I ain’t going out like that, I’m not scaring you guys that bad ever again’, so checked herself into Urban Recovery in Brooklyn as soon as she got back to the city.”

She remembered how small and broken she’d looked the day after her overdose, seeing here there in hospital, trying to remain upbeat. Jen never cried, the epitome of a tough New York girl, but as soon as she’d seen Adrien, she’d burst into tears, apologising for putting him through something like that and thanking him over and over for saving her life.

Speaking of the man himself, after they had both spent the day with their families, they met up again that evening at Jade’s apartment in the West Village, Adrien flecked with a sprinkling of snow as he arrived. Christmas in New York was her favourite time of the year, loving watching it tumble from the sky through the two floor to ceiling windows in her living room.

The space was airy and light, yet sumptuously cozy, candles dotted around lighting every surface, a very big but tastefully decorated tree in the corner of the apartment, the warm white lights twinkling beautifully against the minimal ornaments. They shared a bottle of red wine while exchanging gifts, Jade buying him a whole heap of things she knew he liked, his favourite perhaps being a little crochet doll of a bald, bespectacled man in an orange robe on a bicycle. It took him a good five minutes to stop laughing.

“His holiness on a bicycle, oh god, I love it!” he hissed, reaching for the last gift in the pile.

“Now this one has had me riddled with anxiety over whether you’ll like it or not, and I just have to hope to hell that you do!” she spoke, Adrien opening the paper with curiosity, pulling out a white label record from within.

“The boy from Queens?” he spoke, looking at the title written on there with a Sharpie, nothing else denoting anything. “Who’s it by?”

Pointing at her record player in the corner, she smiled. “It’s an original collaboration. Put it on and find out.” Heaving himself off the couch, he walked over and did exactly that, placing the vinyl down atop the player and switching it on, carefully lining the needle up. As soon as he heard the opening beats, he spun to stare at her.

“What did you do, Burtie?” he spoke, his smile beginning to spread. His mouth then fell open completely, hearing the vocal intro that was Method Man himself, dropping rhymes over his beats.

Burtie. She loved that particular cute little nickname, breathing a huge sigh of relief at his reaction. “I played him some samples of those beat tracks you sent me, shared a few lyrical ideas to tailor it, added to it, and we recorded it upstairs after you’d left last week. You do not even want to know how much it cost me to get it pressed at such short notice as a one off, but you’re worth every cent, my darling.”

Standing there listening, the clever lyrics all relating to him, he was floored. Utterly stunned. “This is the best gift anyone has ever gotten me!” he spoke, nodding his head, “damn, that’s so sick! Baby, thank you so much. Seriously, this is the best.”

“Isn’t it, though? And you’re welcome,” she beamed, elated that he was enjoying something she’d worked so hard on collaboratively. It was always great to hang out with her friend, having Clifford there for nineteen hours straight working on it. Getting to work with him on something so personal up in her little recording space had been an unforgettable experience, though.

Once the track had finished, he came back over to her, lifting up the large gift he’d brought for her, giving her a kiss before sitting down beside where she was comfortably resting in her gigantic bean bag. “Here, I’d say I hope you’ll like it, but I know you definitely will.”

Taking it from him, she propped it back against her large coffee table, picking at the corner before gently tearing the paper. The squeak that bubbled in her throat as she clasped a hand over her mouth made his stomach prickle with joy, watching her so excited.

“Oh my life!” More of the canvas was revealed, Jade flapping her hands as she bounced a little, eyes widening. “Oh my fucking god, Adrien!”

“And I’m deaf. Again,” he joked, pushing a finger against his ear and giving it a little wiggle to stop the ringing her scream had evoked.

Her mouth hung open, looking between him and the painting, more noises of approval sounding. “You bought me a Beksinski original?”

Zdzislaw Beksinski was her favourite artist, the Polish painter and photographer whose medium was dark and macabre, the original painting discovered by Adrien after scouring the internet, finding it for sale through a private collector. It had been worth every single ounce of hassle in getting it shipped over from Germany, the insurance, the customs debacle, the mild heart attack he’d suffered at hearing it might not arrive in time for Christmas, just to see the look of such pure, unfiltered happiness on her face.

“He... he touched this,” she whispered, her fingers gently gliding over the ridges of the oil paint, every swirl and groove, shaking her head in amazement. “Baby, I love it. Thank you! Come here, my handsome mans.” Pulling him into her arms, she showered him with kisses, utterly delighted to have received such a thoughtful gift. She shuddered to think what he must have shelled out for it. Beksinski’s work went for tens of thousands.

Admiring it as she leaned back against his chest, she honestly couldn’t remember the last Christmas she’d felt quite as elated as she did in that moment, in the arms of her love, cozy and warm as outside, the snow continued to cover Manhattan in a thick blanket of glistening white.

“I got you something else, too.” Picking up a small package, he handed it to her, Jade feeling something she instantly recognised within. Pulling it out, there in her hand lay a looped up, long coil of dark blue bondage rope, her grin widening so much, he couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“Put your hand in my bra right now and check out what just seeing this has done to my nipples.” He obliged, giving the left one a little stroke. It was like a bullet. “Okay we’re going to bed right now.”

It was the exact reaction he’d been looking for.

#adrien brody fanfiction #adrien brody smut #adrien brody #adrien brody fanfic #adrien brody fic #adrien brody x ofc #sky full of stars #adrien and jade

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shan0blight · 3 months ago

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If the poets were in squid games this would be their duos and who’d survive the marbles round

Neil and Todd: Neil would sacrifice himself for Todd and Todd would promise him that he’d win the game for him, later spending his whole time writing abt his love. There is not much to say abt them since NEIL FUCKING DIED IN THE MOVIE!!! DONT REALLY NEED TO PRETEND HUH WHEN HIS PUSSY ASS IS ALREADY GONE!?!

Knox and Charlie: Even tho Charlie holds up a tough guy persona he would be the one to sacrifice himself. Knox would be against it completely but after Charlie gives him a long meaningful speech of how he seized the day the longest he could’ve possibly done and how Knox still had more left in him, Knox would turn away and cry silently leaving as they carry charlie’s away. Knox never got the image of his head abt how his blood looked like lipstick…

Mr.Keating and Cameron: This duo would be so amazing to see, especially because of the ending of the movie. Mr.Keating is 100% the one to sacrifice himself but not after one last fun game with the marbles. Cameron would tell Mr.Keating that he isn’t deserving of going on living and how he is sorry for ruining Keating’s career. Mr.Keating would tell Cameron that he has so much to live for and even if some might judge him, he must go on and suck the marrow out of life. Cameron would decline saying how out of all the poets he never knew how to seize the day correctly, but Keating would tell him that their is no wrong way to seize the day but just to enjoy it. Cameron would later in the series feel an overwhelming sense of guilt and take his life in honor of Keating and his own insecurities.

Chris and Ginny: This one is tough but I think ginny would die but if she lived it could be an interesting storyline for her and Knox. Like they try and murder each other because Knox blames her for killing his love but in the end the realize that fighting is crazy and not going to get her back. But it’s too late, ginny died forgiving Knox who was apologizing so much. They Both spent her last moments reminiscing on Chris and how much they both loved her.

Meeks and Pitts: … I don’t know… Like I tried to think but I can’t!! They both are to great to die but to kind to let the other go… Here are some of my ideas on both sides of who would survive:

Meeks lives: They play a game of luck and they fill one bag up with all the marbles and the other with rocks. They mix up the two and chose but Meeks got the rocks. Pitts screams no!! But Meeks accepts his fate but right before the gun went off Pitts swapped their bags and he was shot. In a fit of rage Meeks screams at the unfairness of the game not knowing of the switch till pitts is gone. When he opens the bag he finds that Pitts swapped them, they have to drag Meeks off Pitts because he refused to leave his best friend:(

Pitts lives: They decided to talk during their last moments. Not to play the game but talk about what they will do with their future without the other. In the end they can’t find a reason for both of them to live in the future without each other. Meeks takes of his glasses and looks down at his hands that were wet from tears as he shakes saying he doesn’t want to die but doesn’t want to live without Pitts. As they hug and Meeks cries he secretly takes Pitts marble bag with his glasses and through hidden sobs he fills Pitts bag with all the marbles. When the guards finally come Pitts believes that they will die together but just before the gun goes off and they look at each other and Meeks says “Make sure you fix the volume button on the radio” just as he gets shot in the head. Pitts screams and holds him the same way he did when Meeks was crying, they also had to carry Pitts out cause he wouldn’t let go of his best friend. For the rest of the game he wore his glasses.

#dead poets society #todd anderson #neil perry #charlie dalton #knox overstreet #chris noel #ginny danburry #gerard pitts #stephen meeks #richard cameron #john keating #squid games #movies

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edwinspaynes · 10 months ago

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aaand jordelia + patiently helping them put their shoes on 🫶🏻

This is going to be a sort of two-in-one with another prompt I got last week from @furoruisa, who requested James and Cordelia at the theatre seeing another couple kiss. I felt like both ideas went well together, so I hope that's okay <3

I Can See You (Up Against a Wall With Me)

Cordelia was a vision in rose.

The pastel hue made the warm tones of her dark skin stand out, and her red-hennaed hair worked with the lace to create a stark contrast of soft comfort and hard angles. She was stunning, absolutely glorious, and James felt himself suck in a breath as he watched her descend barefoot down the stairwell. "Well?" She asked, her voice playful. "Is it so terrible?"

"Terrible?" James could barely get the word out. She was every one of his dreams come to life, down to the small daisies that she had strung through the thick strands of hair that trailed down close to her waist. "Daisy, you're..." so lovely I forgot to breathe. "You look perfect," he said instead.

"At least I go perfectly well with your necktie," she said. "We ought to form a sort of brigade. 'Pastel Passion,' perhaps?"

"Alliterative," James said. "As always, I love your ideas. Though I'm not sure that I would call my tie pastel," he argued. "More of a canary yellow than anything, I would say."

Cordelia giggled. "No, that is certainly more pale-yellow than lemon," she said. "But in any event, it brings out your eyes."

"Eldrich eternal flames?" James joked. "Very well, Daisy. I can accept that. In fact, I'm rather relieved - I will admit that I feared clashing. I haven't Matthew's sense of style, and I have felt my own appearance dwindling in his absence."

"Well, if this is you with a 'dwindled' appearance, I cannot imagine seeing you at whatever it is that you consider your fullest potential." She waved a hand as though indicating the great unknown, and James had the immediate urge to grasp it, to press the palm of her slim, elegant hand in his own, to kiss her as breathless as he had been when she descended the stairwell...

But no. No, he could not do that. "We cannot be late," he mumbled, talking himself down from his desperate yearning to feel his wife against him.

"That's true. I wouldn't wish to miss the beginning of Cinderella. And if we wish to get champagne before the show, which, let us be honest, is essential..."

"We must go. Agreed," James said. "But before that, here." He bent down to pick up one of Cordelia's glimmering red high-heels; they had small roses affixed to the sides, a lovely fashion that would surely work wonders with her ensemble.

He held it there, and Cordelia raised an eyebrow. "Why are you holding my shoe? Is this some odd Cinderella-related jest?"

"Because I am your prince?" James cracked a tiny smile. "Yes. Of course. Though I fancy myself as more of a Keats hero. Dark, brooding, handsome-"

"Yes, yes, I know your many merits," Cordelia laughed, lifting her foot. James slipped the shoe on, and the fit was perfect; he chuckled as she lifted her foot into the other as well.

"I'd no idea that your right foot was so much bigger than the left," James teased, helping her up. "Perhaps you'll need to take it to some special shoe-sizing facility for a perfect fit."

Cordelia whacked him. "My feet are as perfect as the rest of me," she chided. And, placing her arm on James's, they strode off into the springtime air.

They sat in their booth, watching the story unfold before them. Of course, Cordelia had always known it. She may not feel as strong a connection to the princesses in the western canon as she did to the heroes that graced the Shahnameh's pages, but she did have some experience with fairy tales, both dark and otherwise. The evil stepsisters began cutting off chunks of her feet, and Cordelia felt riveted despite knowing the ending. "Is this an excellent rendition," she whispered to James, "or is it simply the champagne?"

"Oh, champagne. Definitely." James's voice held such conviction that Cordelia found herself believing him entirely. "I do not understand how these women thought that the loss of limbs would be worth the fame and fortune of royalty." He shuddered.

"I am certain that counting their money might improve their mood," Cordelia said. "Though I do doubt that the money would be enough to cover the hospital expenses after an at-home amputation..."

"Not a lot of foresight there," James agreed.

And they watched until the prince found Cinderella and sat before her, her foot sliding into the slipper like a glove on a hand. Cordelia's face felt warm as she remembered how James had bent before her earlier, how he had smiled up at her in the same way that this man was now looking at the beautiful Cinderella as though she had hung the moon.

And she felt warmer still when they began kissing.

Cordelia raised a gloved hand to her lips and brushed over them gently. Perhaps James...

But no. James was not looking at her at all; his body was as stiff as the heavy oak accents in the theatre as he seemed to single-mindedly focus on the play. As though transfixed, he watched the setup of the wedding scene...

"Horrid birds," he whispered to her as the stepsisters' eyes were pecked out by some very fake-looking pigeons. "It's as my father says. One can never trust them."

"I thought that was just ducks?"

"I think we're well beyond that," James said darkly, and Cordelia stifled a laugh. She assessed James in the darkness; his eyes were clever, all gleaming light and liquid gold. And his lips were slightly parted, soft and sweet. Now that she had imagined it, Cordelia felt horribly needy; she wished to be kissed, now, and by the Angel she would be.

So as soon as the curtain closed, Cordelia grabbed James's hand. Their programs slid to the ground, but who truly cared about something so mundane as a program? The memories were the only keepsake Cordelia needed, she decided, and James would need to contend with whatever complaints he may have on his own time. She could not fathom that he would be too forlorn, considering that he was walking after her just as quickly as she was dragging him.

They made it into another room, a smaller theatre, one that oddly reminded her of the Whispering Room in which they had shared their first kiss nearly two years ago.

She grabbed his hand and pressed him up against one wall hard. Her hand wove its way around his head, and she breathed him in, pulled her close. James's lips tasted as sweet and bubbly as the champagne they had enjoyed, and Cordelia hoped that hers held a harder edge as she moved against him, loosening his tie, pushing up against his body...

"I think it's time to go home," James said, pulling away with dark, blazing eyes.

Cordelia could not agree more.

#the prompts will not all be this long #but this i just rolled with man #i definitely was vibing it #this is long enough to go on ao3 #jordelia #herondaisy #james herondale #cordelia carstairs

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timextoxhajima · 1 year ago

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10 favourite characters from 10 different things

tagged by the lovely @haechanhues, and will be including my own details explaining why i loved them (even if nobody asked) [UNRANKED]

Okju from Ballerina (Netflix)

FRESH in my head. I just watched this yesterday and I LOVED how nonchalant she was. I loved her facial expressions - the ones where you can tell she's devastated and upset but she fights against the need to cry because perhaps she finds it useless to cry (no, i'm not projecting (?))

2. Levi Ackerman from AOT

NEED I SAY MORE?

3. Monica Geller from FRIENDS

Watching the show, she definitely irked me here and there, but it's not like nobody on the show didn't. She might be nit picky and a tad bit of a control freak but she gives the most imo, cooking for everyone and constantly making making sure that no one is left out.

4. Erin from You're Next

I watched this movie at the ripe age of 15 or 16 and by this age, I've already watched a good share of horror/violence/gore/slasher films and I never appreciated the concept of a 'Final Girl' until I watched You're Next.

5. Han Sunwoo from Soundtrack #1

It could be because I'm a simp for PHS but ever since he busted out his heart eyes in this melodrama (and also because back before my boyfriend was my boyfriend, PHS was both our favourite actors and then in Soundtrack #1, his character is basically how my boyfriend became my boyfriend), Han Sunwoo truly has my heart.

6. John Keating from Dead Poet's Society

Sure, I love old classics. But this one went beyond the definition of a classic.

7. John Coffey from The Green Mile

I promise I'm not depressed.

8. Rosalie Hale from The Twilight Saga

If you were making a list that included strong women who hated showing their feelings and were sarcastic but didn't hesitate to snap your neck, how could you omit Rosalie Hale?

9. Kat Stratford from 10 Things I Hate About You

The girl that I wanted to be... but I was like 7 years too late.

10. Murph from Interstellar

I used to dislike her character, until I rewatched it and realised how much she had to go through to grow up without a father, and still stayed true to what he was studying and researching - to the point where she broke the code on the other end.

not tagging anybody but feel free to rb and continue! <3

#dana's games

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dominickeating-source · 5 months ago

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Dominic Keating Interview (2002)

In her own words, Cyndee Rowe is "a freelance writer, who loves sci-fi, fantasy and a lot of really cool indie films. Okay, okay. I admit it I am a rental movie junkie! There, I said it. I have a very understanding husband, three high-spirited children, a greyhound, a siamese cat and two birds and we all live peacefully, in spite of the two year old yelling, 'mine! mine!' in our house in Texas."

She spoke to Dominic Keating via telephone about two weeks after the San Antonio convention.

Were you always interested in acting?

I was about ten I think, when the school I was at decided it was time to put on a play. My mum had been an actress, so I guess it was in my genes, my blood. But it was never talked about in our house. My father had rescued her from the devil's jaw, if you will. Well, as I say, this English mistress auditioned for this school play. I went along because all my mates did, and she went and gave me the lead part, and I loved it. I don't remember very much about it. I remember on the first night having my make-up applied behind the scenery, backstage and her telling me I had impossibly high cheekbones, and I liked that. And I guess my fate was sealed. I went to another school, a big school that had quite a theatrical tradition. Then I went to University in London at University College and they had a West End theater at their disposal, so I did a lot of plays there. But it was quite a while after I left university that I pinned my flag to the acting mast. I was a bit nervous, given the education that I'd been afforded. They weren't being paid to tell my parents that their son had to be on stage, if you know what I mean. I was meant to be a lawyer or an accountant or you know, go into advertising or something. So I battled that for quite a while before I found myself at the age of about 24, sort of washed up and unemployable in my mind. And I just thought, you know what? I really want to act. And that's how it started.

What made you decide to move to the U.S.?

Fame and fortune and uhm, I suppose I'd met a girl too. I had finished a show I had done at home for five years. I did a half hour sitcom at home called Desmond's. I came out here on a holiday, actually to Northern California. I had some friends up there and their brother was getting married. We had a bachelor party in Vegas, and I ended up in L.A. after that for about a month at Christmas. Christmas of 1993, and I met a girl of course. I had been hanging out at Dantana's on Santa Monica Blvd meeting quite famous people and they all thought that I was terribly funny and I thought I should give it a shot. So, I went home and I started, you know, opening my big mouth about moving to America, and I rented out my apartment and I sold a car that I had and God knows, eight years ago that was now in January.

What's the biggest difference between working in America and working in England?

(Laughing) You get paid a lot more money!

It seems that there is a lot more emphasis on the theater in England…

Only in as much as there is more theater and an actor starting out can get their licks and chops sharpened in pub theater. People do, at least they used to… I don't know what attendance is like now. But I think that people in London do tend to go to the theater probably just as much as they do in New York. Los Angeles is a film and television town, it's just that simple. You don't come here to do great theater, so don't imagine that you're going to. That's not to say that there isn't a live and thriving theater community here, 'cause there is. But I think, a lot of the time, you know ask any actor quite honestly and you know, they want to be doing film because you get paid and you get recognition. I've done some of my best ever work and three hundred people have seen it over a five week run. Now I'm doing Star Trek, I did an incredible episode two weeks ago and you know what? Millions and millions of people are going to see it. You know that's a buzz! So that's why I came here to L.A. I tell you what I really thought, I wanted to do movies. Still do. I've done a couple along the way here. At the time England just wasn't making any films. Merchant Ivory was the only group going through London with a movie about every eighteen months to two years. I nearly got cast in plum roles two times running. Both those guys that actually got the jobs in front of me became movie stars. I got impatient, I didn't want to wait around. I thought, you know what? I'm going to go to L.A. where they make movies and try my luck. I was 32. I was single. I had some money in the bank and I thought if I don't do it now, I'll never do it. And thank God I did.

Do you like working in the sci-fi genre?

I do, you know a lot of the stuff I've done here on television has been that genre. I've done Buffy, Poltergeist, The Immortal, G vs. E . . . You know if you throw a stone at sci-fi shows, you're going to hit one of them. It's not that I've made a conscious decision, it's just what you go up for. What you get until a certain point in time where you might start to try to pick and choose a bit more.

Do you have any favorite films or television shows?

I loved a lot of The Sopranos. And favorite films, what have I been watching? I often don't go to the movies a great deal. Not a lot of time at the moment. Amelie is wonderful, well worth seeing. I don't like, what I'm not a big, huge fan of is these big blockbuster, blow 'em up, shoot 'em up. I can't care less about things like that. I don't mind watching them on cable one Friday night when I just happen to be in and I want something to chew my eyes out. But I don't make a point of going to see films like that. I need some characters and I need to have some empathy with these characters in order for me to watch a movie and go, "that was really good."

Do you have a favorite actor or director that you would like to work with?

Well, you know, a lot of them . . . I guess that Soderburgh fella is pretty hot right now (laughter). One would always like to, you know, be in that gang, the number one gang. You know, given the break I reckon I got the talent if you know what I mean. It's just a lot of . . . it is luck, you know, they happen to be in the right place at the right time, any one of those actors. What I feel with this gig is that the door has opened up and I'm looking through it right now. It could just be that I become, you know that Star Trek is my professional life now for the next ten or eleven years if we do the movies. And that fortunately or unfortunately the business won't allow me to do anything else because I will be so associated with it. And if that's the way it is, that's fine you know? I would love to be uhm . . . to have the luck to be an actor that can span, . . . to have that notoriety, that he is just a good actor, and that we want him to do this as well as he can do it. It could just be that the business doesn't allow me to, I'm ready for that too.

Is there more pressure with being involved in a potentially long-term series?

Well, in as much as that . . . you know it's got two edges to the sword. One is, it's the only job in town that's virtually guaranteed you a seven year gig. That is incredible as an actor. You can actually make plans, you know (laughing) buy a dog, and have a life like normal people. Not worry whether or not your show is going to get picked up. Can I afford that car? Shall we go for that house? You know this is a fabulous opportunity to uhm, you know, I'm a cancerian. There is nothing I like better than security, let me tell you. It's incredible that I chose to be an actor in the first place! The other edge of the sword is that it stamps you completely with the insignia of only that and no one can really see past or beyond it. So, you have completely null and voided any opportunity to do anything else. You know I am at an age now and a place in my life where I don't care quite honestly. (Laughing) I've been through the rigors and outrageous fortunes of this game. I am very, very happy that this has come along right now.

Do you have any desire to direct?

I actually do. I've already started that wheel rolling. I'm doing a directors course at the L.A. film school here. I have to follow in the footsteps of Roxann Dawson and Robbie McNeill. I talk to LeVar Burton quite a lot on the phone. So, yeah I would love to add that little feather to my cap.

Do you think Lt. Reed will get to have a romantic interest?

It's feasible, I wouldn't rule it out, I don't know. They're not going to make him the first gay character on Star Trek like I read in the tv guide. (laughing) They said that I would be the first gay character on Star Trek. And I like… What!!?? I'm playing another poof, I can't believe it. Will this follow me around for the whole of my career? Not to say it disparagingly, but I have played a lot of gay characters cause I'm good at it I guess. But no, I don't think he is going to be that. And, seven years we've got to go and I would imagine they'll have us run the whole gamut.

If you could play any character from any Star Trek series who would it be and why?

Well, I'm not that familiar with all the incarnations but hmmm… I think I'd make a pretty good Data, Brent Spiner's character was a very interesting character and a wonderful acting challenge. I actually just met him the other day for the first time. I was on set on the movie that they're filming right now, Nemesis. Yeah, it's either that or Patrick Stewart's character, just cause it's a hell of a part and he's the captain and he plays it so well. He is a charming man, I met him for the first time too. I'd been making fun of him since I got this job. Just saying that as an English actor we all looked at him when he first came over to do Star Trek. Throwing our arms up in the air, oh why, oh why Patrick? You could be playing Mistress Quickly at Leatherhead right now! (laughing) So yeah, one of those two.I think for me, Enterprise seems a little closer to a more believable time.

Yeah, it definitely has a human element that you can accommodate. It's funny and it's more dramatic dare I say? There's more room for drama. And there is a lovely chemistry between all the characters and as actors we all get along so well. You know I've been in two shows, long running shows. Well, this I hope is going to be the second. When I was in Desmond's at home in England, right from the read through, from the first table reading there was a simpatico between all the actors that sat round that table. And sometimes the scripts weren't great. But you know? It didn't matter, because the chemistry between all of us as we rehearsed and as we shot came through on the TV screen. That is what really made that show run. People liked tuning in and it never felt, it wasn't, it never felt anything but easy to watch. And I think that Enterprise is going to be the same. Characters you feel comfortable watching, I hope this is going to be the same with us. And with Scott [Bakula] at the helm, he's comfortable, he's so comfy to be around. He's a great guy, he truly is, a top-notch geezer as we say in London. (laughing)

A lot of fans can be very detail oriented . . .

(laughing) The "Techie Trekkies" I've nicknamed them.

Has that caused you to research some of the technical aspects of the scripts?

Yes and no. I mean I'm learning, it's all pretty simple to be honest, once you . . . it's not, it isn't rocket science and it does make sense when you read the scripts. It truly makes sense what they are talking about. You don't have to be a complete physicist to understand the concepts that they are outlining. And as an actor, why wouldn't I want to know exactly what it is I'm saying? It lends more credulity to what I'm doing. It's not that I'm rushing off to buy Star Trek encyclopedias and bibles. But I'm surrounded by it on a daily basis, now at the production office and at Paramount, and even just talking with you guys. I'm learning all the time and it's not water off a duck's back, it is all being absorbed and integrated.

There are a lot of different types of people who attend the conventions . . .

Yeah, it crosses the gamut. When I saw my first pack of portly Klingons waiting at the stoplight to come across the street to the convention. I look out the window of the car and I go, "there are my peeps!" It truly is interesting, you get the mother of two young sons and then you get the nineteen year old babe who is just into sci-fi. It really is an extraordinary demographic.

In fact, I saw you at a convention in San Antonio . . .

Oh, you did. Isn't that a beautiful town? We had such fun there. You guys that come to those conventions. I have a quiet moment in the airport as I come away from them to get on the plane and go home. There is a great sense of thanks in my heart. You know without you guys, the people that come to the conventions and those fans that truly love the show. You know none of this would have been possible for me. I am eternally grateful, I really, really mean that.

I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, and I want to wish you the best of luck. This new series has definitely held my interest . . .

Yes, it's got something about it, doesn't it?

Source: www.dominickeating.com

#dominic keating #the keating cult

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grandhotelabyss · 2 years ago

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—Kerry Howley, "Late Work"

If anybody wants to write in and Jorie-Graham-pill me, I'm as ready as I'll ever be after Howley's surpassingly designed and executed profile.

It's so well done I almost want to put my ideological questions on hold. If her father were the "art monster" who had hurled her across the room for defacing the canvas, would this primal scene prove so redemptive and generative in the profile's narrative? Or would we be treated to yet another recitation of Bishop reprimanding Lowell: "Art just isn't worth that much?"

(Aesthetics and ethics are separate, each absolute in its domain. Just as being an artist doesn't license abusing a child, the artist's having abused her child doesn't invalidate her art. Both are true.)

The only one of Graham's students whose voice we hear for more than a paragraph writes, we're told, about "Black pleasure," just in case we might be worried about what this privileged white lady teaches. What does she teach?

“There was a way of being in that classroom,” Schiff says, “where you never questioned: Is this endeavor important? Does this art form matter? These questions just were not posed.” Here was a professor, says poet John Beer, who taught poetry as a “site for the disclosure of truth,” not merely of self-expression or an investigation into the operations of language, with a conviction not even particularly prevalent in other poets. This was an ethic but also an inheritance.

No quarrel from me about spirit of the remark, though "site for the disclosure of the truth" is not English but Heideggerese. Who taught the poets to speak the abstract jargon of the philosophers? The rumination on how to achieve late work is moving: how not to get caged in your mature manner, how not to burn out.

In 1978, eight years after his suicide, she descended the Guggenheim’s spiral at a Rothko exposition; the paintings grew more recent as she went on. Once he hits Rothko, she thought, he does great Rothko. One could see Rothko becoming Rothko, and then … years of the same. At the beginning of the very Rothko Rothkos, it was as if a light exuded from the back and the sides, a bright window whose horizontal shapes occluded the light. But in the late-Rothko Rothkos, “there’s no light coming through anymore,” she says, “as if the blinds have been drawn. He knows he’s trapped spiritually. You can’t be trapped aesthetically and not also be trapped spiritually. If your work is your life, then if your life comes to a point where you’re trapped, you’re like any animal, if you can’t get out, you’re done. If you can’t move forward, you’ve been hunted into a corner, even if you’re the hunter.”

There were the poets who exceeded themselves when time ran short: Elizabeth Bishop, Keats (yes, Keats, at 24, knew the end was coming, the work grew late), and Yeats, especially Yeats, who “lifted off at the end.”

Graham's mother, though, planning even unto her last words her massive earth installation or whatever—I couldn't quite picture it—is the prime example. I will swallow my skepticism: "People had always misunderstood the nature of Jorie Graham’s privilege." I don't care about checking anybody's privilege, but the insiderness of this life may produce a poetics that could use some aeration, and not from the corporate-curated news feed her left-liberal guilt addicts her to.

I could say of my own inheritance in the class stratum below Graham's: my father was a commercial artist who worked for money, taught me to draw, and never beat me for interfering with his work. The moral of that story would be this: the kind of privilege that allows you never to question the importance of the endeavor is probably a dis-privilege: too much is taken for granted and too little in consequence risked. But where would this get us? Yeats was right: don't be personal.

I am too severe. This genre of writing doesn't get much better; even my ideological qualms pay tribute to its canniness. Yet Howley scarcely discusses Graham's poetry. I have a vision of the woman—walking barefoot in Iowa to feel the earth, dressed all in black, scolding the school board because they've dumbed down the multiplication table, helplessly transfixed by Ukraine and climate change and her mother's death on her phone—but not of the work. She wrote long lines and now, in her late phase, cancer-stricken, she writes short lines. This is what I come away knowing about her poetry.

I've read exactly one Graham poem closely, "Reading Plato," because it was in an anthology I was teaching from. I didn't like it, thought its self-serious un-musicality indistinguishable from any other poetry published in the New Yorker, thought its gently self-implicating inverted-Platonic critique of "men" for their mimetic separation from and aggression against nature predictable, safe. Rereading it now, I think, uncharitably: if you're going to write like this, you might as well have just kept your shoes on. This, as the article goes out of its way to tell us, is the heir to Dickinson and Bishop, is an admirer of Keats and Yeats. What am I missing? The question is not rhetorical; please Graham-splain.

#jorie graham #kerry howley #poetry #literary criticism #american literature

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justarandompjofan · 2 years ago

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The First Dead Poets

Cursed

look i am just as surprised as y’all that i’ve been writing as much as i have been. tw: references to war, death, suicide, overdosage, drugs, miscarriages (whoo that’s a long list today)

John and Jessica had only just sat down for dinner when the phone rang. He stood up and took it off the handle.

“Hello?”

“Is this John Keating?”

“It is. Who is this?”

“Elizabeth Dalton, someone said you were inquiring about us.”

His eyes widened and motioned for Jessica to come over, “Yes, yes thank you so much for-“

“I’ll put you on the phone with my husband. One moment.” There was a small pocket of silence before another voice came to the phone.

“This is Daniel Dalton. How can I help you, Mr. Keating?”

“I was a friend of your sisters in high school, I was looking for you to ask if you knew where she is.”

“I see.”

“And?”

“She came here shortly after she left Henley, seeking a place to stay, and as her brother I was obligated to take her in. Then she had the baby and…”

“And what?” John asked, not sure he wanted to hear how that sentence ended.

“She overdosed on pain medications, she died last year.” He dropped the phone, looking at Jessica in shock. It was silent. They knew it was possible but they didn’t want to accept it. But there he was, her own brother, confirming that she had died. Jessica gripped the side of the wall, trying to stabilize herself. He reached to put a hand on her shoulder but she pulled away quickly, sprinting towards the bathroom.

“John, are you still there?”

He picked up the phone, “Yes, I just-I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. As much as she must have told you what a horrible brother I was, I really did care for her.”

“I understand.”

“And the father, what became of him?”

“He’s in Italy, fighting in the war.”

“When he returns, tell him to call us. The boy should meet his father.”

“What is his name?”

Another pause, “Pardon?”

“Their son, what is his name?”

“Charles.” He smiled to himself, imagining Charles with his own son named for him.

“Thank you, Mr. Dalton.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For speaking with me.”

“Of course. Take care, John.” He set down the phone and sighed, rubbing his forehead. How would he break the news to Charles? He didn’t think he could be the one to tell him that Sarah was dead. And Jessica…He was about to go to the bathroom when the doorbell rang.

He opened the door to see the mailman, “Thomas, anything from Italy?”

“I’m afraid so, John,” he said, handing him an envelope marked with a military stamp.

“What is this?”

“I don’t know, it arrived for you last night.”

“Thank you.” Before Thomas could respond he had closed the door, ripping the envelope open. The moment he saw the paper he knew what it said. He collapsed to the ground, the letter crumpling in his hand. Not again. Not again. Wasn’t it enough that he had seen James hanging from a rope in their dorm room? Wasn’t it enough that Sarah had overdosed on drugs? And now Charles. Charles, his best friend, his platonic soulmate, was dead somewhere in Italy. He was dead somwhere in Italy, lying in a trench. He would never see him again. He would never get to see his infuriating smile, laugh at his stupid jokes, or spend hours just talking about whatever was on their minds. He would never get to see his best friend ever again. What were the odds that everybody he knew and cared about had died? He ripped up the letter, ripping up Vernon E. Prichard’s stupid signature. Fuck Vernon E. Prichard and his stupid condolences and his stupid name. What kind of name was Prichard anyway? He hated it. He hated this whole damn war and every damn person who was responsible for Charles’s death. He had never felt so angry in his entire life. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Charles died. It wasn’t fair that he never got to say goodbye to Sarah. It wasn’t fair that he never got to meet his son and that his son would never know his father. He stumbled to the bathroom, where Jessica was sat on the floor, her back against the wall.

She looked up at him, “John?”

“He’s dead,” he whispered. “He’s dead.” She gasped and he sat down beside her, resting his head on her shoulder.

“It’s like everyone I love is cursed. Maybe I’m the one who’s cursed.”

“You are not cursed, John. The world just isn’t fair, none of it is you fault.”

“But-“

“If you try to blame yourself for everything in your life you’ll go crazy. Trust me.”

She was right and he knew it. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he just ruined everybody’s lives. That maybe they would have been better off if they had never known him.

@emilythefern @theluminoussunflower @sup3r-n0vaa @iguanamuppet @chloe-octavia

#the first dead poets #dead poets society #dps #john keating

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abbatoirablaze · 2 years ago

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How To Get Away With Murder, Chapter 5

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: angst, mentions of murder, depiction of murder of a minor character, promiscuous relationships, mention of an underage pregnancy/secret pregnancy, taboo relationship, smut.

"Cheyanne," my mom asked, from the office on the main floor, "Have you seen Frank yet?"

I shook my head, "No mom, I haven't seen him in a few days now. Sasha called me the other day asking if I wanted to grab lunch so she’s back in town. He's probably stuck with her."

"That would explain why Lauren is down." Annalise said with a shrug. Just on the other side of the closed doors the Keating 5 had just finished up on another case and were waiting to hear what was next on the docket.

"Laurel!"

"What?" Annalise asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Her name is Laurel, not Lauren, mom," I laughed, "I know you don't like the girl but give her a shot. She is really smart."

"Smart can only take you so far, Cheyanne," she sighed, "She's only cutthroat when it comes to talking to you. The girl would slit your throat if it could get her further. Hell I’m sure she’d slit your throat just for fun at this point."

I took a second to think it over. The only times that Laurel had been argumentative was when I was around with Frank. She would get really aggressive.

"Can I come in," Wes asked, knocking on the door, “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

I walked over to the door and opened it, letting him in, "What do you want?"

"Asher never showed up. Laurel left ten minutes ago, and we were wondering if we could head home early. The bonfire is tonight and some of us wanted to go."

"Why did Laurel leave?"

"I don't know her phone started to go off, and she just left."

"Go home. I need to talk with my daughter. Thank you for asking me, Wes."

Wes nodded, and I closed the door to the office. On the other side of the door, we could hear Michaela telling them to meet at Asher's place.

"Honey, I need to talk to you about your father," she sighed, "Sit down."

"Does it have anything to do with the Lila Stangard case?"

Annalise nodded, "I've got a call with the D.A later and I want you to know before anyone else does."

"It's why Bonnie isn't here..."

"You know?"

I nodded, "We've got to talk about some things too mom. Tell dad about the DNA testing and then come to my house. I need to show you something."

"Cheyanne?"

I looked at her one last time before I stood up and headed towards the double doors, "I love you mom, but I only did it to protect you. You'll see."

“Okay…”

I walked out of my parent's house and started to my own, only to be stopped by Sam, "Honey, what are you doing here?"

"You and mom need to talk."

"She already thinks she knows everything," he said in an angered tone, "Let's go in and talk about this, Cheyanne…with your mother."

"No, dad," I sighed, trying to weasel my way out of having to be in the room with the two of them when they had their discussion, "She fired Bonnie today and she found out about the baby. Right now, she is on the phone with the D.A. And she's going to request a DNA test."

"Cheyanne, you don't know what you are talking about!" he said nervously, eyeing up the house before turning back to me, “come on, honey. Come inside with me. Let’s talk to your mother together!”

"Dad I'm done covering for you. I know everything," I yelled. A few concerned students stopped walking, before their friends pulled them along. I sighed and bit my lip but pulled my father close to myself in a hug as to not attract any further attention, "I love you dad...but I know who you are. I know what you are. You use people. You manipulate them. You manipulated me. You manipulated mom, Bonnie, Frank. All of us. Whatever mom does, I hope it ends you."

With a final sigh, I kissed him on the cheek and got into my car without a second thought, heading to my house. I knew that the conversation was going to be a long one between mom and dad. I could see the tiredness in her eyes and knew that she was going to say she wanted a divorce. I also knew that I was going to be prepared for when she came over with a bottle of wine, a warm bedroom that she could use as her own while they went through the legalities, and a shoulder to cry on.

After the fight had taken place, and Michaela had made it over to the Keating mansion, Rebecca snuck through the front door. This was her chance to prove Mr. Darcy killed her friend, not her.

She just needed to get her hands on the proof. And she had been waiting for Annalise to leave. But she was shocked when she heard two voices talking in the dark. She had tried desperately to sneak up the stairs, but was caught at the foot of them when someone called her name.

“Rebecca?”

She turned, seeing Michaela. Sam was glaring at her, a dangerous look in his eyes.

"Call Wes." she pleaded, making a bee-line for the Keating's master bedroom. She heard the lock click right as Sam Keating beat on the door telling her to let him in. Michaela, unsure of what is going on, called Wes. It was right then and there, at the foot of the stairs she found out just the extent this whole mess had gone on.

She had managed to stumble into not just an intense fight, but something that she knew would end in a gruesome way if she didn’t intervene.

She grabbed at her neck in disbelief. Sam broke down the bedroom door, forcing Rebecca into the bathroom. Within moments, the rest of the Keating 5 was in the master bedroom trying to diffuse the situation. They were all talking a mile a minute, and it only led to more confusion. It wasn't working. Tension hung in the air like a knife. As Rebecca and Wes passed Sam he tackled them.

His career may have been in tatters if the evidence got out there, but it wasn't going to be ruined because Annalise's little lap dogs caught him. He wasn’t going to just roll over from five law students and his wife. He saw the flash drive and made a grab for it. Wes, Rebecca, and himself all were involved in the struggle. Conner tried to jump in, but Sam easily struck him away. Next, Laurel fought her way in, grabbing it and making her way towards the stairs. Sam overpowered the young adults and chased after her.

As he grabbed for Laurel, Michaela pushed him over the edge of the railing. And that's when the house got silent. It seemed like everything went in slow motion as Sam went over the rail and tumbled to the floor below. When everyone rushed to the stairs their hearts caught in their throats.

Sam was still. They all had made the assumption that Sam had died from the fall. It wasn't until they began arguing that they noticed Sam get up and make a move for Rebecca. In one swift motion he was on top of her trying to strangle the life out of her. The screaming continued, and Wes grabbed the trophy, swinging it at the back of Sam's head. This time, he was dead.

They were sure of it.

The Keating 5, minus Asher, took to cleaning up their crime, meanwhile across town Annalise debated turning in her husband for the murder of Lila Stangard.

At her home, Cheyanne began to worry about her mother. Why hadn't se arrived? She called the one person she knew she could always rely on.

"Hey, are you with Laurel?" he pled. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach as the worry was all for her, “Chey?”

"Why would I be with Laurel?"

"I don't know maybe Annalise called you guys with a new case,” he said nervously, “your mom is bat shit crazy and I wouldn’t put it past her to call a meeting right now if she got pertinent information!”

"How's Sasha?"

There was a moment of silence, "How did you know?"

"Your voice always changes when you are with her. It's higher,” I commented dryly, “is she at your place right now? That why you’re really asking about Laurel? Because she caught you with her?”

I heard a door close on the other side of the phone before he continued, "We just broke up, again. I brought Laurel over."

"Wow," I scoffed into the phone. My voice was barely above a whisper, “how smooth.”

"What?"

"Just when I think you can't physically get any worse, you prove me wrong."

"Cheyanne, please don't start."

"I'm just saying," I laughed to myself, "You never change, Frank."

"Predictability is a good thing."

"I needed it. I'm worried about my mom," I admitted to myself with a sigh, "She found out about Lila's baby. And she's going to confront my dad about it. She was supposed to be over half an hour ago."

He had taken a sharp breath in, afraid to say anything.

"Frank, I know it wasn't him."

"What?"

"I know who took care of her in August. It wasn't my father."

"Chey…I don’t want to talk about this again."

"I know you did it to protect him. Just like he protected you with my little brother." I sighed, admitting what she'd always known, “but I-shit…can we just meet up and talk about this?"

"There is nothing to talk about."

“Yes there is!”

"Fine. I'm coming over." He said, hanging up. I sighed again and put my hair up. If I was going to have the dreaded conversation with Frank, I was at the very least going to be comfortable.

So I went upstairs to my bedroom and went to my dresser. Pulling out a beige cami and matching sleep shorts, I threw them on, and grabbed a pair of fluffy socks. Downstairs, I could hear the front door close, and I didn't know if it would be my mother or ex-boyfriend who never seemed to knock either. Both still had keys to her house anyways.

But just as I opened the door, I was pushed back into the room. Frank picked me up and slammed his lips into my own.

"This can't happen," I recalled between kisses, "We can't. Sasha. Laurel. Frank-this-this is too messy!"

"I don't care," he practically yelled. Part of me didn't want to care either, but the much larger part thought about New York, and the carousel I seemed to be on with him, “I just need to feel you, Chey. I need to feel you, baby.”

I pulled away from him and stood up against his body. He kept lifting my chin and kissing me, but something stopped me this time from fully giving myself up to him.

Rather…someone.

"I can't," I sighed. He pulled away from me and gave me a sad look. I backed away and sat him down on what used to be our shared bed. "Frank. I can't."

"I love you though, Chey."

"I love you too," I admitted. He got on his knees in front of me and kissed me once more, trying to pull back any part of our passion that he could. He felt the same shock between them that he'd had since the day he met her, but in front of it was a large wall. I pushed him away, “Frank…stop…”

He pulled away and slammed his fists on either side of the bed, "Then you tell me why can't we try again? I miss you so much Cheyanne. I miss laying in this bed with you. I miss waking up with you. I miss us being a family…"

"Frank," I pleaded sadly, "Go home. Please…just go back to your apartment.”

“I am home…”

He stood up, reaching for me again, but I held my arm out, pushing him away, "Go away Frank, please."

"I'm not leaving," he sighed, “I am home…I-“

"Well, I'm not talking to you," I responded, flipping over so I wasn't facing Frank, “and if I can’t see you then you’re not here.”

“You’re being childish, Chey…”

“Being childish would be not communicating with me and making it so that our daughter walked in on you fucking your flavor of the week…oh wait…that has happened.”

"How's Julie?"

I turned back around, tears in my eyes, "You don't get to ask about her! You don’t get to talk about her. Not after what you put her through when you and Sasha started getting serious after you walked out on me. After you walked out on us!"

"I'm her father!" he said in an angry voice. He stood up in a rush.

"It's none of your business, Frank."

"She still living with Eve?"

"Leave her alone."

"I've never talked to her after that day," he said, "I've never looked for her. I just want to see her. I want to know about her, Chey."

“You don’t need to know about her life, Frank…she’s fine without you…hell, she’s fine without me…Eve’s making sure she’s okay.”

“Just one picture, Chey…I-I just need to see her.”

“FIne," I said passing him a picture, "Eve sent it last week."

The photograph was a small child in a Christmas dress. The petite little girl couldn't be more than seven or eight years old. Her bright smile contrasted against her caramel skin and dark brown hair. Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled.

"This is her," he said, taking in a deep breath. He bit his lip as his fingers glazed over the photo, "This is our daughter? God…she’s getting so big…she-"

"Yeah," I replied blankly trying to look around the room. Anywhere but his eyes, "Little Julie Harkness. That's our baby, Frank."

Frank rubbed the back of his neck and continued to look at the picture. The two of them had an illicit affair. One that would have that he broke Sam and Annalise's trust.

Annalise and Sam had known about their grandchild, but they never acknowledged it as the truth, because they’d never actually seen Cheyanne pregnant. When she had originally found out, Frank had been running around the country with Annalise and she had been living with Eve. And while Eve knew that Frank had managed to slip inside the city, and between her daughter’s thighs, neither Sam nor Annalise were willing to ask or encourage the relationship.

"She has your eyes," I said, trying to cheer him up, "And your smile."

He shrugged, "She's got your everything else."

"She's intuitive, just like her father too." I agreed. I walked around the bed and met him at the foot of it.

Frank looked between his ex-girlfriend and the picture of his daughter. Cheyanne's hand went over his and he put the picture on the bed. When his hands were free, he put them up to hold her face, and pulled her to him once more. There lips melded together as he laid her on the bed. Without hesitation he slipped her shorts and underwear off before kicking his own pants off.

"I miss you Chey," he whispered as he entered her, “fuck, I’ve missed you, baby.”

Chapter 6

#how to get away with murder #annalise keating #sam keating #the keating 5 #keating 5 #frank delfino #bonnie winterbottom #wes gibbins #connor walsh #michaela pratt #laurel castillo #asher millstone #rebecca sutter #lila stangard

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hellsitesonlybookclub · 9 months ago

Text

It Can't Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 3-4

CHAPTER III

DOREMUS JESSUP, editor and proprietor of the Daily Informer, the Bible of the conservative Vermont farmers up and down the Beulah Valley, was born in Fort Beulah in 1876, only son of an impecunious Universalist pastor, the Reverend Loren Jessup. His mother was no less than a Bass, of Massachusetts. The Reverend Loren, a bookish man and fond of flowers, merry but not noticeably witty, used to chant "Alas, alas, that a Bass of Mass should marry a minister prone to gas," and he would insist that she was all wrong ichthyologically—she should have been a cod, not a bass. There was in the parsonage little meat but plenty of books, not all theological by any means, so that before he was twelve Doremus knew the profane writings of Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, Jane Austen, Tennyson, Byron, Keats, Shelley, Tolstoy, Balzac. He graduated from Isaiah College—once a bold Unitarian venture but by 1894 an inter-denominational outfit with nebulous trinitarian yearnings, a small and rustic stable of learning, in North Beulah, thirteen miles from "the Fort."

But Isaiah College has come up in the world today—excepting educationally—for in 1931 it held the Dartmouth football team down to 64 to 6.

During college, Doremus wrote a great deal of bad poetry and became an incurable book addict, but he was a fair track athlete. Naturally, he corresponded for papers in Boston and Springfield, and after graduation he was a reporter in Rutland and Worcester, with one glorious year in Boston, whose grimy beauty and shards of the past were to him what London would be to a young Yorkshireman. He was excited by concerts, art galleries, and bookshops; thrice a week he had a twenty-five-cent seat in the upper balcony of some theater; and for two months he roomed with a fellow reporter who had actually had a short story in The Century and who could talk about authors and technique like the very dickens. But Doremus was not particularly beefy or enduring, and the noise, the traffic, the bustle of assignments, exhausted him, and in 1901, three years after his graduation from college, when his widowed father died and left him $2980.00 and his library, Doremus went home to Fort Beulah and bought a quarter interest in the Informer, then a weekly.

By 1936 it was a daily, and he owned all of it... with a perceptible mortgage.

He was an equable and sympathetic boss; an imaginative news detective; he was, even in this ironbound Republican state, independent in politics; and in his editorials against graft and injustice, though they were not fanatically chronic, he could slash like a dog whip.

He was a third cousin of Calvin Coolidge, who had considered him sound domestically but loose politically. Doremus considered himself just the opposite.

He had married his wife, Emma, out of Fort Beulah. She was the daughter of a wagon manufacturer, a placid, prettyish, broad-shouldered girl with whom he had gone to high school.

Now, in 1936, of their three children, Philip (Dartmouth, and Harvard Law School) was married and ambitiously practicing law in Worcester; Mary was the wife of Fowler Greenhill, M.D., of Fort Beulah, a gay and hustling medico, a choleric and red-headed young man, who was a wonder-worker in typhoid, acute appendicitis, obstetrics, compound fractures, and diets for anemic children. Fowler and Mary had one son, Doremus's only grandchild, the bonny David, who at eight was a timid, inventive, affectionate child with such mourning hound-dog eyes and such red-gold hair that his picture might well have been hung at a National Academy show or even been reproduced on the cover of a Women's Magazine with 2,500,000 circulation. The Greenhills' neighbors inevitably said of the boy, "My, Davy's got such an imagination, hasn't he! I guess he'll be a Writer, just like his Grampa!"

Third of Doremus's children was the gay, the pert, the dancing Cecilia, known as "Sissy," aged eighteen, where her brother Philip was thirty-two and Mary, Mrs. Greenhill, turned thirty. She rejoiced the heart of Doremus by consenting to stay home while she was finishing high school, though she talked vigorously of going off to study architecture and "simply make millions, my dear," by planning and erecting miraculous small homes.

Mrs. Jessup was lavishly (and quite erroneously) certain that her Philip was the spit and image of the Prince of Wales; Philip's wife, Merilla (the fair daughter of Worcester, Massachusetts), curiously like the Princess Marina; that Mary would by any stranger be taken for Katharine Hepburn; that Sissy was a dryad and David a medieval page; and that Doremus (though she knew him better than she did those changelings, her children) amazingly resembled that naval hero, Winfield Scott Schley, as he looked in 1898.

She was a loyal woman, Emma Jessup, warmly generous, a cordon bleu at making lemon-meringue pie, a parochial Tory, an orthodox Episcopalian, and completely innocent of any humor. Doremus was perpetually tickled by her kind solemnity, and it was to be chalked down to him as a singular act of grace that he refrained from pretending that he had become a working Communist and was thinking of leaving for Moscow immediately.

He cursed competently as, on the cement walk from the garage to the kitchen, he barked his shins on the lawn-mower, left there by his hired man, one Oscar Ledue, known always as "Shad," a large and red-faced, a sulky and surly Irish-Canuck peasant. Shad always did things like leaving lawnmowers about to snap at the shins of decent people. He was entirely incompetent and vicious. He never edged-up the flower beds, he kept his stinking old cap on his head when he brought in logs for the fireplace, he did not scythe the dandelions in the meadow till they had gone to seed, he delighted in failing to tell cook that the peas were now ripe, and he was given to shooting cats, stray dogs, chipmunks, and honey-voiced blackbirds. At least twice a day, Doremus resolved to fire him, but—Perhaps he was telling himself the truth when he insisted that it was amusing to try to civilize this prize bull.

Doremus looked depressed, looked old, when he lifted himself, as from an invalid's chair, out of the Chrysler, in his hideous garage of cement and galvanized iron. (But it was a proud two-car garage; besides the four-year-old Chrysler, they had a new Ford convertible coupe, which Doremus hoped to drive some day when Sissy wasn't using it.)

Doremus trotted into the kitchen, decided that he did not want some cold chicken and a glass of milk from the ice-box, nor even a wedge of the celebrated cocoanut layer cake made by their cook-general, Mrs. Candy, and mounted to his "study," on the third, the attic floor.

His house was an ample, white, clapboarded structure of the vintage of 1880, a square bulk with a mansard roof and, in front, a long porch with insignificant square white pillars. Doremus declared that the house was ugly, "but ugly in a nice way."

His study, up there, was his one perfect refuge from annoyances and bustle. It was the only room in the house that Mrs. Candy (quiet, grimly competent, thoroughly literate, once a Vermont country schoolteacher) was never allowed to clean. It was an endearing mess of novels, copies of the Congressional Record, of the New Yorker, Time, Nation, New Republic, New Masses, and Speculum (cloistral organ of the Medieval Society), treatises on taxation and monetary systems, road maps, volumes on exploration in Abyssinia and the Antarctic, chewed stubs of pencils, a shaky portable typewriter, fishing tackle, rumpled carbon paper, two comfortable old leather chairs, a Windsor chair at his desk, the complete works of Thomas Jefferson, his chief hero, a microscope and a collection of Vermont butterflies, Indian arrowheads, exiguous volumes of Vermont village poetry printed in local newspaper offices, the Bible, the Koran, the Book of Mormon, Science and Health, Selections from the Mahabharata, the poetry of Sandburg, Frost, Masters, Jeffers, Ogden Nash, Edgar Guest, Omar Khayyam, and Milton, a shotgun and a .22 repeating rifle, an Isaiah College banner, faded, the complete Oxford Dictionary, five fountain pens of which two would work, a vase from Crete dating from 327 B.C.—very ugly—the World Almanac for year before last, with the cover suggesting that it had been chewed by a dog, odd pairs of horn-rimmed spectacles and of rimless eyeglasses, none of which now suited his eyes, a fine, reputedly Tudor oak cabinet from Devonshire, portraits of Ethan Allen and Thaddeus Stevens, rubber wading-boots, senile red morocco slippers, a poster issued by the Vermont Mercury at Woodstock, on September 2, 1840, announcing a glorious Whig victory, twenty-four boxes of safety matches one by one stolen from the kitchen, assorted yellow scratch pads, seven books on Russia and Bolshevism—extraordinarily pro or extraordinarily con—a signed photograph of Theodore Roosevelt, six cigarette cartons, all half empty (according to the tradition of journalistic eccentrics, Doremus should have smoked a Good Old Pipe, but he detested the slimy ooze of nicotine-soaked spittle), a rag carpet on the floor, a withered sprig of holly with a silver Christmas ribbon, a case of seven unused genuine Sheffield razors, dictionaries in French, German, Italian and Spanish—the first of which languages he really could read—a canary in a Bavarian gilded wicker cage, a worn linen-bound copy of Old Hearthside Songs for Home and Picnic whose selections he was wont to croon, holding the book on his knee, and an old cast-iron Franklin stove. Everything, indeed, that was proper for a hermit and improper for impious domestic hands.

Before switching on the light he squinted through a dormer window at the bulk of mountains cutting the welter of stars. In the center were the last lights of Fort Beulah, far below, and on the left, unseen, the soft meadows, the old farmhouses, the great dairy barns of the Ethan Mowing. It was a kind country, cool and clear as a shaft of light and, he meditated, he loved it more every quiet year of his freedom from city towers and city clamor.

One of the few times when Mrs. Candy, their housekeeper, was permitted to enter his hermit's cell was to leave there, on the long table, his mail. He picked it up and started to read briskly, standing by the table. (Time to go to bed! Too much chatter and bellyaching, this evening! Good Lord! Past midnight!) He sighed then, and sat in his Windsor chair, leaning his elbows on the table and studiously reading the first letter over again.

It was from Victor Loveland, one of the younger, more international-minded teachers in Doremus's old school, Isaiah College.

Dear Dr. Jessup:

("Hm. 'Dr. Jessup.' Not me, m' lad. The only honorary degree I'll ever get'll be Master in Veterinary Surgery or Laureate in Embalming.")

A very dangerous situation has arisen here at Isaiah and those of us who are trying to advocate something like integrity and modernity are seriously worried—not, probably, that we need to be long, as we shall probably all get fired. Where two years ago most of our students just laughed at any idea of military drilling, they have gone warlike in a big way, with undergrads drilling with rifles, machine guns, and cute little blueprints of tanks and planes all over the place. Two of them, voluntarily, are going down to Rutland every week to take training in flying, avowedly to get ready for wartime aviation. When I cautiously ask them what the dickens war they are preparing for they just scratch and indicate they don't care much, so long as they can get a chance to show what virile proud gents they are.

Well, we've got used to that. But just this afternoon—the newspapers haven't got this yet—the Board of Trustees, including Mr. Francis Tasbrough and our president, Dr. Owen Peaseley, met and voted a resolution that—now listen to this, will you, Dr. Jessup— "Any member of the faculty or student body of Isaiah who shall in any way, publicly or privately, in print, writing, or by the spoken word, adversely criticize military training at or by Isaiah College, or in any other institution of learning in the United States, or by the state militias, federal forces, or other officially recognized military organizations in this country, shall be liable to immediate dismissal from this college, and any student who shall, with full and proper proof, bring to the attention of the President or any Trustee of the college such malign criticism by any person whatever connected in any way with the institution shall receive extra credits in his course in military training, such credits to apply to the number of credits necessary for graduation."

What can we do with such fast exploding Fascism?

Victor Loveland.

And Loveland, teacher of Greek, Latin, and Sanskrit (two lone students) had never till now meddled in any politics of more recent date than A.D. 180.

He plumped into a deep chair and sat fidgeting, like a bright-eyed, apprehensive little bird.

"So Frank was there at Trustees' meeting, and didn't dare tell me," Doremus sighed. "Encouraging them to become spies. Gestapo. Oh, my dear Frank, this a serious time! You, my good bonehead, for once you said it! President Owen J. Peaseley, the bagged-faced, pious, racketeering, damned hedge-schoolmaster! But what can I do? Oh—write another editorial viewing-with-alarm, I suppose!"

On the door was a tearing sound, imperious, demanding.

He opened to admit Foolish, the family dog. Foolish was a reliable combination of English setter, Airedale, cocker spaniel, wistful doe, and rearing hyena. He gave one abrupt snort of welcome and nuzzled his brown satin head against Doremus's knee. His bark awakened the canary, under the absurd old blue sweater that covered its cage, and it automatically caroled that it was noon, summer noon, among the pear trees in the green Harz hills, none of which was true. But the bird's trilling, the dependable presence of Foolish, comforted Doremus, made military drill and belching politicians seem unimportant, and in security he dropped asleep in the worn brown leather chair.

CHAPTER IV

ALL this June week, Doremus was waiting for 2 P.M. on Saturday, the divinely appointed hour of the weekly prophetic broadcast by Bishop Paul Peter Prang.

Now, six weeks before the 1936 national conventions, it was probable that neither Franklin Roosevelt, Herbert Hoover, Senator Vandenberg, Ogden Mills, General Hugh Johnson, Colonel Frank Knox, nor Senator Borah would be nominated for President by either party, and that the Republican standard-bearer—meaning the one man who never has to lug a large, bothersome, and somewhat ridiculous standard—would be that loyal yet strangely honest old-line Senator, Walt Trowbridge, a man with a touch of Lincoln in him, dashes of Will Rogers and George W. Norris, a suspected trace of Jim Farley, but all the rest plain, bulky, placidly defiant Walt Trowbridge.

Few men doubted that the Democratic candidate would be that sky-rocket, Senator Berzelius Windrip—that is to say, Windrip as the mask and bellowing voice, with his satanic secretary, Lee Sarason, as the brain behind.

Senator Windrip's father was a small-town Western druggist, equally ambitious and unsuccessful, and had named him Berzelius after the Swedish chemist. Usually he was known as "Buzz." He had worked his way through a Southern Baptist college, of approximately the same academic standing as a Jersey City business college, and through a Chicago law school, and settled down to practice in his native state and to enliven local politics. He was a tireless traveler, a boisterous and humorous speaker, an inspired guesser at what political doctrines the people would like, a warm handshaker, and willing to lend money. He drank Coca-Cola with the Methodists, beer with the Lutherans, California white wine with the Jewish village merchants—and, when they were safe from observation, white-mule corn whisky with all of them.

Within twenty years he was as absolute a ruler of his state as ever a sultan was of Turkey.

He was never governor; he had shrewdly seen that his reputation for research among planters-punch recipes, varieties of poker, and the psychology of girl stenographers might cause his defeat by the church people, so he had contented himself with coaxing to the gubernatorial shearing a trained baa-lamb of a country schoolmaster whom he had gayly led on a wide blue ribbon. The state was certain that he had "given it a good administration," and they knew that it was Buzz Windrip who was responsible, not the Governor.

Windrip caused the building of impressive highroads and of consolidated country schools; he made the state buy tractors and combines and lend them to the farmers at cost. He was certain that some day America would have vast business dealings with the Russians and, though he detested all Slavs, he made the State University put in the first course in the Russian language that had been known in all that part of the West. His most original invention was quadrupling the state militia and rewarding the best soldiers in it with training in agriculture, aviation, and radio and automobile engineering.

The militiamen considered him their general and their god, and when the state attorney general announced that he was going to have Windrip indicted for having grafted $200,000 of tax money, the militia rose to Buzz Windrip's orders as though they were his private army and, occupying the legislative chambers and all the state offices, and covering the streets leading to the Capitol with machine guns, they herded Buzz's enemies out of town.

He took the United States Senatorship as though it were his manorial right, and for six years, his only rival as the most bouncing and feverish man in the Senate had been the late Huey Long of Louisiana.

He preached the comforting gospel of so redistributing wealth that every person in the country would have several thousand dollars a year (monthly Buzz changed his prediction as to how many thousand), while all the rich men were nevertheless to be allowed enough to get along, on a maximum of $500,000 a year. So everybody was happy in the prospect of Windrip's becoming president.

The Reverend Dr. Egerton Schlemil, dean of St. Agnes Cathedral, San Antonio, Texas, stated (once in a sermon, once in the slightly variant mimeographed press handout on the sermon, and seven times in interviews) that Buzz's coming into power would be "like the Heaven-blest fall of revivifying rain upon a parched and thirsty land." Dr. Schlemil did not say anything about what happened when the blest rain came and kept falling steadily for four years.

No one, even among the Washington correspondents, seemed to know precisely how much of a part in Senator Windrip's career was taken by his secretary, Lee Sarason. When Windrip had first seized power in his state, Sarason had been managing editor of the most widely circulated paper in all that part of the country. Sarason's genesis was and remained a mystery.

It was said that he had been born in Georgia, in Minnesota, on the East Side of New York, in Syria; that he was pure Yankee, Jewish, Charleston Huguenot. It was known that he had been a singularly reckless lieutenant of machine-gunners as a youngster during the Great War, and that he had stayed over, ambling about Europe, for three or four years; that he had worked on the Paris edition of the New York Herald; nibbled at painting and at Black Magic in Florence and Munich; had a few sociological months at the London School of Economics; associated with decidedly curious people in arty Berlin night restaurants. Returned home, Sarason had become decidedly the "hard-boiled reporter" of the shirt-sleeved tradition, who asserted that he would rather be called a prostitute than anything so sissified as "journalist." But it was suspected that nevertheless he still retained the ability to read.

He had been variously a Socialist and an anarchist. Even in 1936 there were rich people who asserted that Sarason was "too radical," but actually he had lost his trust (if any) in the masses during the hoggish nationalism after the war; and he believed now only in resolute control by a small oligarchy. In this he was a Hitler, a Mussolini.

Sarason was lanky and drooping, with thin flaxen hair, and thick lips in a bony face. His eyes were sparks at the bottoms of two dark wells. In his long hands there was bloodless strength. He used to surprise persons who were about to shake hands with him by suddenly bending their fingers back till they almost broke. Most people didn't much like it. As a newspaperman he was an expert of the highest grade. He could smell out a husband-murder, the grafting of a politician—that is to say, of a politician belonging to a gang opposed by his paper—the torture of animals or children, and this last sort of story he liked to write himself, rather than hand it to a reporter, and when he did write it, you saw the moldy cellar, heard the whip, felt the slimy blood.

Compared with Lee Sarason as a newspaperman, little Doremus Jessup of Fort Beulah was like a village parson compared with the twenty-thousand-dollar minister of a twenty-story New York institutional tabernacle with radio affiliations.

Senator Windrip had made Sarason, officially, his secretary, but he was known to be much more—bodyguard, ghost-writer, press-agent, economic adviser; and in Washington, Lee Sarason became the man most consulted and least liked by newspaper correspondents in the whole Senate Office Building.

Windrip was a young forty-eight in 1936; Sarason an aged and sagging-cheeked forty-one.

Though he probably based it on notes dictated by Windrip—himself no fool in the matter of fictional imagination—Sarason had certainly done the actual writing of Windrip's lone book, the Bible of his followers, part biography, part economic program, and part plain exhibitionistic boasting, called Zero Hour—Over the Top.

It was a salty book and contained more suggestions for remolding the world than the three volumes of Karl Marx and all the novels of H. G. Wells put together.

Perhaps the most familiar, most quoted paragraph of Zero Hour, beloved by the provincial press because of its simple earthiness (as written by an initiate in Rosicrucian lore, named Sarason) was:

"When I was a little shaver back in the corn fields, we kids used to just wear one-strap suspenders on our pants, and we called them the Galluses on our Britches, but they held them up and saved our modesty just as much as if we had put on a high-toned Limey accent and talked about Braces and Trousers. That's how the whole world of what they call 'scientific economics' is like. The Marxians think that by writing of Galluses as Braces, they've got something that knocks the stuffings out of the old-fashioned ideas of Washington and Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton. Well and all, I sure believe in using every new economic discovery, like they have been worked out in the so-called Fascist countries, like Italy and Germany and Hungary and Poland—yes, by thunder, and even in Japan— we probably will have to lick those Little Yellow Men some day, to keep them from pinching our vested and rightful interests in China, but don't let that keep us from grabbing off any smart ideas that those cute little beggars have worked out!

"I want to stand up on my hind legs and not just admit but frankly holler right out that we've got to change our system a lot, maybe even change the whole Constitution (but change it legally, and not by violence) to bring it up from the horseback-and-corduroy-road epoch to the automobile-and-cement-highway period of today. The Executive has got to have a freer hand and be able to move quick in an emergency, and not be tied down by a lot of dumb shyster-lawyer congressmen taking months to shoot off their mouths in debates. BUT—and it's a But as big as Deacon Checkerboard's hay-barn back home—these new economic changes are only a means to an End, and that End is and must be, fundamentally, the same principles of Liberty, Equality, and Justice that were advocated by the Founding Fathers of this great land back in 1776!"

The most confusing thing about the whole campaign of 1936 was the relationship of the two leading parties. Old-Guard Republicans complained that their proud party was begging for office, hat in hand; veteran Democrats that their traditional Covered Wagons were jammed with college professors, city slickers, and yachtsmen.

The rival to Senator Windrip in public reverence was a political titan who seemed to have no itch for office—the Reverend Paul Peter Prang, of Persepolis, Indiana, Bishop of the Methodist Episcopal Church, a man perhaps ten years older than Windrip. His weekly radio address, at 2 P.M. every Saturday, was to millions the very oracle of God. So supernatural was this voice from the air that for it men delayed their golf, and women even postponed their Saturday afternoon contract bridge.

It was Father Charles Coughlin, of Detroit, who had first thought out the device of freeing himself from any censorship of his political sermons on the Mount by "buying his own time on the air"— it being only in the twentieth century that mankind has been able to buy Time as it buys soap and gasoline. This invention was almost equal, in its effect on all American life and thought, to Henry Ford's early conception of selling cars cheap to millions of people, instead of selling a few as luxuries.

But to the pioneer Father Coughlin, Bishop Paul Peter Prang was as the Ford V-8 to the Model A.

Prang was more sentimental than Coughlin; he shouted more; he agonized more; he reviled more enemies by name, and rather scandalously; he told more funny stories, and ever so many more tragic stories about the repentant deathbeds of bankers, atheists, and Communists. His voice was more nasally native, and he was pure Middle West, with a New England Protestant Scotch-English ancestry, where Coughlin was always a little suspect, in the Sears-Roebuck regions, as a Roman Catholic with an agreeable Irish accent.

No man in history has ever had such an audience as Bishop Prang, nor so much apparent power. When he demanded that his auditors telegraph their congressmen to vote on a bill as he, Prang, ex cathedra and alone, without any college of cardinals, had been inspired to believe they ought to vote, then fifty thousand people would telephone, or drive through back-hill mud, to the nearest telegraph office and in His name give their commands to the government. Thus, by the magic of electricity, Prang made the position of any king in history look a little absurd and tinseled.

To millions of League members he sent mimeographed letters with facsimile signature, and with the salutation so craftily typed in that they rejoiced in a personal greeting from the Founder.

Doremus Jessup, up in the provincial hills, could never quite figure out just what political gospel it was that Bishop Prang thundered from his Sinai which, with its microphone and typed revelations timed to the split-second, was so much more snappy and efficient than the original Sinai. In detail, he preached nationalization of the banks, mines, waterpower, and transportation; limitation of incomes; increased wages, strengthening of the labor unions, more fluid distribution of consumer goods. But everybody was nibbling at those noble doctrines now, from Virginia Senators to Minnesota Farmer-Laborites, with no one being so credulous as to expect any of them to be carried out.

There was a theory around some place that Prang was only the humble voice of his vast organization, "The League of Forgotten Men." It was universally believed to have (though no firm of chartered accountants had yet examined its rolls) twenty-seven million members, along with proper assortments of national officers and state officers, and town officers and hordes of committees with stately names like "National Committee on the Compilation of Statistics on Unemployment and Normal Employability in the Soy-Bean Industry." Hither and yon, Bishop Prang, not as the still small voice of God but in lofty person, addressed audiences of twenty thousand persons at a time, in the larger cities all over the country, speaking in huge halls meant for prize-fighting, in cinema palaces, in armories, in baseball parks, in circus tents, while after the meetings his brisk assistants accepted membership applications and dues for the League of Forgotten Men. When his timid detractors hinted that this was all very romantic, very jolly and picturesque, but not particularly dignified, and Bishop Prang answered, "My Master delighted to speak in whatever vulgar assembly would listen to Him," no one dared answer him, "But you aren't your Master—not yet."

With all the flourish of the League and its mass meetings, there had never been a pretense that any tenet of the League, any pressure on Congress and the President to pass any particular bill, originated with anybody save Prang himself, with no collaboration from the committees or officers of the League. All that the Prang who so often crooned about the Humility and Modesty of the Saviour wanted was for one hundred and thirty million people to obey him, their Priest-King, implicitly in everything concerning their private morals, their public asseverations, how they might earn their livings, and what relationships they might have to other wage-earners.

"And that," Doremus Jessup grumbled, relishing the shocked piety of his wife Emma, "makes Brother Prang a worse tyrant than Caligula—a worse Fascist than Napoleon. Mind you, I don't really believe all these rumors about Prang's grafting on membership dues and the sale of pamphlets and donations to pay for the radio. It's much worse than that. I'm afraid he's an honest fanatic! That's why he's such a real Fascist menace—he's so confoundedly humanitarian, in fact so Noble, that a majority of people are willing to let him boss everything, and with a country this size, that's quite a job— quite a job, my beloved—even for a Methodist Bishop who gets enough gifts so that he can actually 'buy Time'!"

There was nothing exhilarating in such realism, so all this rainy week in June, with the apple blossoms and the lilacs fading, Doremus Jessup was awaiting the next encyclical of Pope Paul Peter Prang.

All the while, Walt Trowbridge, possible Republican candidate for President, suffering from the deficiency of being honest and disinclined to promise that he could work miracles, was insisting that we live in the United States of America and not on a golden highway to Utopia.

#hellsitesonlybookclub #bookblr #It Can't Happen Here #sinclair lewis

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suarcz · 1 year ago

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𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 in here, how small the room is. four walls and it’s as if you stare long enough into them, wallpaper so clean and smooth it didn’t feel real, they’d inch closer and closer. as for the low temperature, it’s intentional. to instinctively make hair rise, blood vessels narrowing and heartbeat pacing faster. thumping, like a wild hare. everything is so dark and gloomy, except for the glowing light overhead and ishtar’s untouchable smile. pride unspoiled by her arrest, handcuffs, even being belittled, and there are just some things they do not get right on television. do not make a mistake, but with ishtar she can never tell if she is treading too lightly. what ishtar really thinks about her. or what she’s done to capture her attention, her doting, and it’s left juno baffled since the first day. what was so intriguing about her? because juno was drawing a blank.

maybe it had been chance. it could have easily been anyone else and she remembered volunteering herself to scout the tavern, practically plopped in the middle of nowhere. it had just been coincidence because they had been there at the same time; with a bloody, sugary drink left untouched and blue eyes drowning in heavy sadness. a bartender who expressed concern and juno suárez, on her own for the first time. so unprepared. so privy to trusting her facade which screamed grief ( because juno knew how consuming that feeling was ) and eating up her story, her place in the victim’s life, and giving ishtar what she had wanted. played right into her hands and juno felt so stupid. the image glowing back onto their pupils, on garcia’s screen. only, her eyes weren’t so sad, and her lips were desperately attempting to conceal a smile. ishtar atta isil.

it’s been a year and yet, this dangerous dance between them manages to make her gut twist like it had in that moment of creeping realization. because ishtar, just by uttering the word june, can morph into another face like lightning ready to strike. an older face, long black hair and smile lines around the eyes which betray the macabre truth underneath. please, june. don’t be upset with me. but ishtar is not keating, as much as juno might paint them to be the same. hating ishtar is not going to bring anyone back. “ why should anyone have to understand anything i feel? isn’t it enough that you understand me? ” there was truth in this, as much as it might be concealed. as much as there were pieces inside, rotting away, spreading like spores across juno’s intestines. secrets touched by white growth, bleeding green around the edges. nightmares which sucked the air from her lungs, fear of blood underneath her nails, staining her fingertips, hands stealing life from the one who’d stolen hers, and then . . . a beat of silence. ishtar’s hair tickling her face, staring down into her, with wide eyes. ‘ey, there. it’s time to wake up. dreams snatched up pieces of your reality and sculpted them into something else. their reality was inescapable. ishtar could recognize what juno was hiding; what juno hoped she could bury from the rest of the world. the one thing to remain fearful of.

now, the truth takes some courage and the truth was, juno had not admitted everything. to emily, maybe. because the others wouldn’t get it. they would hate her, they would doubt her, and look upon her as though she was no longer their colleague but a new specimen. she deserved it, she just couldn’t bear it to come from her own mouth. no gentle touches or pastries for breakfast, not from penelope garcia. another empty seat at the dinner table for morgan’s family because how could he dare bring such a thing into his home. face to face, with doe eyes staring at her and left without a clever statistic to lighten the mood. you lied. so let it spill, june. “ i don’t know how you’re everywhere. i don’t know how you’re keeping up with us, following, but i know . . . it was you. helping us, helping me. ” no touching. no touching, juno thinks as ishtar leans forwards and has a small finger tracing out the thread of her jeans. how all their policies and protocols are tossed aside when it comes to juno; yet, in this moment. she craved them. because ishtar breaking down these walls was proof that she was very real. and they were far more alike than either knew. “ i want to help you. will you let me? ” everything comes at a cost.

as the clock ticks & tocks, the girl's head lolls from one side to the other, dancing to the passing of time, amused & obviously enjoying the inner turmoil that she can smell even through the one-way glass. are they going to do it? yes, of course. if the wolf asks for a specific lamb, you give it the prey! after all, don't you want to know why it opens its maw so wide? don't you want to know why it never leaves enough of a carcass for you to pin it on it? nothing better than the main course to taunt it into showing its teeth. that they're so eager to send her the object of her obsession is amusing, to say the least. she would have thought they would try to protect her more. aaron hotchner knew the second he set his eyes on her that ishtar would not be the kind to babble the truth. so why cave to her demands?

ah, most certainly because juno said she would do it & one thing a father wants more than anything is that, when push comes to shove, his child is able to stand their ground in the middle of the storm. & so here she comes! juno suarez, still as delicious as she was a year ago. not that ishtar hasn't seen her since : she is meticulous in her affection, and would not dare letting june forget about her. but they have not known each other to be in the same room ever since last year's encounter. whatever tingle ishtar got from making herself known, it had to be through pieces of a puzzle & trinkets left behind. though, considering the pallor of juno's skin, she'd say the agent found most of her gifts without any issue.

"mmmmh, depends on wha' ya'd call better, love." her tongue rasps against the top of her palate before speaking again, as if giving juno time to feign whatever expression she wishes to. on the other hand, her body is completely nonchalant ; nothing fake about it either. no tension on her shoulders, no hesitation in the spreading of her legs. a girl pretty enough to savage, all there for the taking. "agent suarez!" there, not quite surprise but counterfeited dismay. "yunno they film these kinda things, right?" a grin, pretty & bright, "wouldn't want yer team to know what ya feel 'bout lil' old me."

if her voice has yet to admit how many hours she spent thinking about agent suarez, her eyes have no issue betraying her interest : they unravel her without shame. the lines of her legs. hips & waist. toned stomach, full breasts. the dip between her collar bones where ishtar knows she could easily dip her tongue if she got close enough to touch. throat, carotid artery pulsating with precious blood. sharp jaw, and of course her beautiful face, with lips that ishtar has yet to taste. she imagines it to be intoxicating, like strong liquor with some ice. the way your body shivers both because of the assault & the reprieve.

"thinkin' ain't exactly my thin'. could do some showin' ya, though. not that i'd keep it pg-18." her smirk is full of offense, shameless & disgraceful. whatever hell she came out of, it was one without social cues & society rules. what most people think normal or necessary, ishtar tramples. what she wants, she bites. what she hates, she destroys. what she loves… well. we have yet to discover what horrors she reserves for love. "have ya told 'em, june? 'bout how this ain't as disgustin' to ya as they think?" the face drops. no smile & only a flash of teeth as she bites into the agent's name. dead seriousness as she wonders out loud, as legs open just a little wider so she can lean forward just slightly enough to hover one finger on the seam line of juno's jeans. a murmur, "what were ya thinkin' 'bout, uh?"

#they're so silent hill coded < 3

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burningvelvet · 2 years ago

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Here are a lot of the biographical sources I’ve used in studying the second generation Romantics (mainly just Byron, Mary and Percy Shelley, and their friends). If anyone else has recommendations, etc., feel free to reply!

Note: the Internet Archive & Project Gutenberg have most of these resources for free, & many can be easily found on other websites or at libraries. I also recommend reading the literary works of these writers first and foremost, since a writer’s work often reveals the most about them!

For biographical research, primary sources are sometimes the best: the letters and journals of Mary & Percy Shelley, Claire Clairmont, John Polidori, Edward Trelawny, Leigh Hunt, Lord Byron, John Hobhouse, Jane & Edward Williams, John Keats, etc. These are always the most entertaining resources as well. It’s amazing to read what they actually wrote and see things from their perspective — it also allows you to formulate your own original opinions. But remember that people are biased and forgetful by nature, and some more than others!

Young Romantics: The Shelleys, Byron and Other Tangled Lives by Daisy Hay — this is basically a condensed biography of all the members of the Byron/Shelley Romantic squad but it does provide a lot of good info, especially on Leigh Hunt & Claire Clairmont who are less talked about. It skips over some important stuff imo but it has a wonderful thesis (that the Romantics should be studied as a whole instead of individually) and offers interesting perspectives, and neatly shows how all the figures were tied by their similar ideas/interests. Perfect as an introduction!!

Byron in Geneva: That Summer of 1816 by David Ellis — all about the gang’s summer of 1816; extremely fascinating and historical! It doesn’t go into Frankenstein because that’s covered in so many other books.

The Making of Mary Shelleys Frankenstein by Daisy Hay — a brilliant companion piece to the above! It may be helpful to have alongside this Charle’s Robinson’s The Frankenstein Notebooks (though the Frankenstein manuscripts are available to be viewed here -> http://shelleygodwinarchive.org/).

History of a Six Weeks' Tour by Mary Shelley and Percy Bysshe Shelley (1817) — travel book; series of letters/journals from their travels with Claire in 1814 and in 1816 when they were with Byron in Geneva; Byron is only referred to as their “companion” since he was extremely famous and didn’t want attention drawn to his private life. For similar reasons I believe Claire is left out a lot too; her affair with Byron was being kept quiet due to his recent separation from his wife, and many people were spreading reputation-ruining rumours that Claire and Percy also had an affair (which was probably true), etc.

Mary Shelley by Miranda Seymour — Seymour has written a lot about the Romantics and this is a pretty decent biography imo.

The Collaborative Literary Relationship of Percy Bysshe Shelley and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley by Anna Mercer — very important and interesting, fits into Daisy Hay’s thesis above. Anna Mercer is a major figure in Romantic research/work!

Romantic Outlaws: a parallel biography of Mary Shelley and her mother Mary Wollstonecraft by Charlotte Gordon: it explores Mary Shelley alongside her mother Mary Wollstonecraft, who was also a famous writer and pioneered feminism. She and her husband influenced the philosophies of Mary and Percy Shelley and are insanely interesting in their own right.

Works by Mary Shelley’s parents: Mary Wollstonecraft’s works A Vindication of the Rights of Woman and Thoughts on the Education of Daughters; and William Godwin’s works Political Justice, Caleb Williams, and Memoirs of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (a biography of Mary Wollstonecraft).

The Life and Letters of Mary Shelley by Mrs. Julian Marshall, two volumes via Project Gutenberg— a treasure trove of letters with writing by Marshall that is never boring imo. I think Mary’s letters and journals after Percy’s death are some of the most haunting I’ve ever read.

Byron: A Portrait by Leslie A Marchand — he’s one of the top Byron scholars and it’s probably one of the most thorough biographies. Marchand also edited the monstrous multi-volume series of Byron’s Letters and Journals, one of the definitive resources in Romanticism, often shortened by academics as “BLJ.” It’s the foundation of Byronic Studies/“Byronalia”. Byron was a prolific and beloved writer and his letters are some of the most studied, and more has been written about him than any other romantic figure by far, so I’ll try not to make this post too Byron-centric, but it is a struggle!

The Journals of Claire Clairmont by Marion Kingston Stocking — one of the best sources for Claire letters, which are sometimes hard to come by. Stocking is wonderfully sympathetic to Claire who is often neglected by historians. Claire was Mary Shelley’s step-sister and lived with Mary & Percy, and she had an affair with Byron which produced one child. Unfortunately, Claire’s diaries from 1814-1818 (when she was living with Mary & Percy + had an affair with Byron) were all destroyed. It is thought they were not destroyed by her but some other relative. This is likely because many people believe that Claire/Percy had an affair, and as blunt as she was, she would have surely written down tons of other reputation-ruining information. But her later journals and letters reveal invaluable insight into her companions lives. She was one of their main muses because she was extremely firey, funny, and fascinating.

The Clairmont Correspondence: Letters of Claire Clairmont, Charles Clairmont, and Fanny Imlay Godwin, 1808-1879. By Professor Marion Kingston Stocking. - on Claire and her siblings. Claire was Mary Shelley’s step-sister so she had her own relatives too.

Shelley, the Pursuit by Richard Holmes — considered the best biography of Percy Shelley. Extremely comprehensive. Holmes also wrote about Coleridge, and several autobiographies on what it’s like to be a Romantic biographer — very interesting!

James Bieri's biography of Percy Bysshe Shelley (two separate volumes; one edition has both volumes together) — this is the other best biography of Percy Shelley and I refer to it along with the Holmes one.

Shelley at Oxford by Thomas Jefferson Hogg — Shelley’s dorm roommate writing about their time at college. Some of his accounts are exagerrated but many are believable — he was Shelley’s best friend (aside from Peacock). Also, The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley by Thomas Jefferson Hogg (two volumes) — same person as above. This work was boycotted by the family because it portrayed Percy as having flaws (lol) but it may not be totally accurate in other regards.

Thomas Medwin’s Journal of the Conversations of Lord Byron and The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Medwin was Shelley’s cousin. His Byron book was publicly boycotted by basically everyone who knew Byron. Even Byron’s exes and servants were writing scathing reviews of it! This was partly for factual errors. However, Medwin does capture some of Byron’s personality, though the more controversial and tacky sides, which is the primary reason it was boycotted. His biography of Shelley was disliked for similar reasons. Mary wrote to Mrs. Hunt of Medwin’s Byron biography: “Have you heard of Medwin’s book? Notes of conversations which he had with Lord Byron (when tipsy); every one is to be in it; every one will be angry. He wanted me to have a hand in it, but I declined. Years ago, when a man died, the worms ate him; now a new set of worms feed on the carcase of the scandal he leaves behind him, and grow fat upon the world’s love of tittle-tattle. I will not be numbered among them.” This shows how Mary and others viewed tell-all biographies; much the same way they are viewed today.

The Diary of Edward Williams — short diary kept by Williams who drowned with Shelley and lived with him - interesting accounts of their life before death!

The Diary of John Polidori — he was Byron’s doctor and also a writer. He wrote The Vampyre, the first ever vampire novel, which was based on the story Augustus Darvell, an unfinished vampire story Byron began as part of the 1816 Geneva story competition in which Mary wrote Frankenstein. Whew. Any way, Byron’s publisher John Murray wanted to pay Polidori to keep a record of his & Byron’s travels… which he failed to follow through with, but some of his entries remain. However, most of his diaries/journals were burned by his sister for being “indecent” (likely LGBT+) & he took his own life at age 25.

The Lord Byron / John Polidori relationship and the foundation of the early nineteenth-century literary vampire by Matthew Beresford — this is actually someone’s doctoral thesis and can be found here: https://uhra.herts.ac.uk/bitstream/handle/2299/22626/13090610%20BERESFORD%20Matthew%20Final%20Version%20of%20PhD%20Submission.pdf?isAllowed=y&sequence=1&fbclid=IwAR3uN505R2nuvS1mTlUY3MEn5YRUYJn7hgmKXy9FGO0wooh6xwpXfqJTfME

Poor Polidori : a critical biography of the author of The vampyre by David Macdonald — sometimes harsh, bu the writing is truly entertaining and the intro alone is so so so insightful! “The study of a marginal figure like Polidori - indeed, of many marginal figures like Polidori - is necessary if literary studies are to be rescued from the ahistorical canonization in which they have been entrenched since before the days of the New Criticism. Even apart from the unquestionable need for a larger context against which to understand canonical authors, it may be that marginal ones provide clearer examples of certain kinds of intertextual phenomena.” Yes! He gets it.

John Keats: The Making of a Poet by Aileen Ward — one of the best biographies on Keats

Letters of Fanny Brawne to Fanny Keats and Letters of John Keats to Fanny Brawne. Fanny was John’s fiancé & muse.

Lord Byron's Jackal: A Life of Edward John Trelawny by David Crane and the Letters of Edward Trelawny — Trelawny was a brief part of the squad. He’s buried next to Shelley although he only knew him for 6 months. He was a writer, sailor, adventurer, and went into the Greek War with Byron. He kept in touch with Mary and Claire until the end of their lives. He proposed to Claire multiple times and they possibly had an affair.

Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron by Edward Trelawny — He wrote this decades after he knew them and the details in some of his stories tended to vary. In later years he became biased against some people so it can be taken with a grain of salt. But it’s very interesting and some of it must be true. Gives details of Shelley’s funeral.

Life of Byron by Thomas Moore — very well researched and Mary Shelley contributed a lot to it including accounts of the 1816 Diodati trip. Moore was a famous writer as well and he knew them all. He was one of Byron’s best friends. Biased, of course!

Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries: With Recollections of the Author's Life, and of His Visit to Italy by Leigh Hunt — Extremely entertaining if not unbiased. Hunt was a key part of the movement and knew everyone well, including Keats, and especially Shelley. Like all biographies written by people who were involved, it is very biased — especially since Hunt and Byron had a big falling out, which Hunt blames Byron for (which isn’t entirely fair; for example, Byron gave Hunt money which Hunt was ungrateful for, & Byron gave Hunt money to give to Mary when she was living with Hunt because Byron knew she wouldn’t accept it from him out of shyness, but Hunt kept the check for himself source: Young Romantics by Daisy Hay). Many people dislike Hunt because of this book and several things he did, but it is still interesting!

Shelley and His Circle; Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection: a collection of manuscripts with notes and expalanations - best for research!

The Shelley-Byron Conversation by William D. Brewer: explores their influences on each other and literary connections. Several books have been written just on Shelley and Byron. Another one I like is Shelley and Byron: The Snake and Eagle Wreathed in Flight by Charles E. Robinson which examines how for example Shelley plagiarized some of Byron’s work (this isn’t an attack, it’s true, and he did it out of appreciation!)

His Very Self and Voice: Collected Conversations of Lord Byron edited by Ernest J Lovell — basically a compilation of people sharing their memories of Byron and the others— some are biased but some seem super accurate, and you can tell by the details that overlap in everyone’s stories lol!

Lady Blessington's Conversations of Lord Byron edited by Ernest J Lovell — same as above. Taken from diaries she kept.

Byron’s Ravenna Journal — short diary he kept while living in Ravenna, Italy.

Byron’s Correspondence as edited and collected by top scholar Peter Cochran: much of it is available on his website here with notes —> https://petercochran.wordpress.com/byron-2/byron/

The Last Man by Mary Shelley — a fictional book, but the characters are all portraits of people Mary knew so it’s very biographically interesting. She wrote it when she was feeling l lonely after Byron and Shelley died, Claire moved far away, and the whole group was disbanded. It takes place in an apocalyptic/dystopian future. Lord Raymond is Lord Byron, Adrian is Percy, Perdita is Claire — the characters form a group she calls the “Elect.” She wrote in her journal: “The last man! Yes I may well describe that solitary being's feelings, feeling myself as the last relic of a beloved race, my companions extinct before me."

My Recollections of Lord Byron by contessa di Teresa Guiccioli — this is a book by Teresa, Byron’s gf in Italy who he lived with for years; his longest partner. She was madly in love with him and worships him to an insane extent so most of it can be taken with skepticism since it is biased, but it is entertaining.

The Last Attachment by Iris Origo: this is about Byron’s relationship with Teresa. It can be paired with the above. It is one of the only books written about Teresa and is very well researched.

The Secret: The Strange Marriage of Annabella Milbanke and Lord Byron by Ashley Hay and In Byron's Wake: The Turbulent Lives of Lord Byron's Wife and Daughter: Annabella Milbanke and Ada Lovelace by Miranda Seymour — Byron’s daughter Ada is also fascinating. She was a wild rebel like Byron, but she’s considered the mother of computer science, the inventor of coding, and was the first computer programmer ever; her and her mother were both mathematicians. Lord and Lady Byron had a horrible marriage; he was an absent father, and Annabella was a bad mother.

Journals/resources: Other important journals/resources for articles + scholarly study: 1) the Newstead Abbey Byron Society (Newstead Abbey was his ancestral home; now a museum). 2) The Byron Society, which runs The Byron Journal, which is a major resource—there are many offshoots of the Byron Society for different countries (ie Byron Society of America), that make up the overall International Society, and they have fascinating conferences and whatnot for Byron scholars to share research. 3) The Shelley Conference— they have a series of recorded interviews with scholars for the #Shelley200 anniversary celebration (found here: https://theshelleyconference.com/shelley200/). 4) the Keats-Shelley Journal— an amazing resource for all things related to them, their work, and their circles. They post a lot of work about Mary/Byron/Claire/Hunt/etc. and a lot of their past publications can be found online for free! It’s probably my favorite journal tbh.

Notes: I’ve read lots of other books and academic articles, especially if I’m searching for something on a particularly niche topic. The good thing about the Romantics is that they’re all so well-researched and so widely written about, so practically any question has already been asked before—there have been whole essays written about these writers diets, wardrobes, sexualities, health statuses, bills and bank statements, philosophies, sleep schedules, etc.! However, I’ve found a lot of newer biographical books about these writers simply rehash what others have written, and are poorly researched or not researched at all, and a lot of them are published only because it’s an easy topic to profit off of due to how interesting these people were. I ran into this problem a lot when trying to learn more about Lady Caroline Lamb, Byron’s half-sister Augusta Leigh, and his wife Anne Milbanke. There aren’t that many good books written about them because they’re considered secondary figures in the Romantic canon, and most of the books on them read like copies of each other—so individual essays online written by rogue academics are really your best bet for info instead of the books, or to otherwise supplement what the books lack!

Closing notes: I would never tell anyone not to read something, but beware that a lot of authors have written tantalizing, dramatized portraits of these writers to cash in on their scandals without actually fact checking anything. Many people in the circle had disagreements and falling outs, some understandable and some petty. It’s important to remember that everyone is explictly and implicitly biased. Byron started a feud with Keats, Claire and Mary had multiple falling outs, Hobhouse hated Percy, almost everyone hated Hobhouse, etc… so it’s good to keep a relatively open mind and to remember that these are all complex people and we shouldn’t stereotype them; they were human, and they had strengths as well as flaws. They all despised critics, and they would probably be annoyed if they knew how many biographies they all had, so the least we can do today is to appreciate their work as writers and muses, and to be respectful of their individual opinions and experiences.

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thefanficmonster · 2 years ago

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Can I request a fluff Drabble or smth with Connor Walsh where he’s struggling with a case and than his 4-6 year old kid points out something about the case that helps Connor solve it and he’s just really proud of them?<333

Aww sure thing, darling! Enjoy the drabble 💕

Father-son relationship: Connor & Child Character [How To Get Away With Murder]

Warnings: None :)

Genre: Domestic/Family Fluff

Summary: see request above

This was the type of case that got everyone fuming. Literally everyone. Yes, even the too-cool-to-care Frank. How did Annalise pick this one out of all the cases that she rifled through this week? It's almost as though she wanted to make them suffer because she dropped the case on the K5 and hasn't made an attempt to help them ever since. She proclaimed she had some work of her own to do therefore wouldn't tolerate anyone trying to bother her.

That's left the five students with plenty of research work to do, work they inevitably caved and started taking home with them. It's a guessing game how much of it they actually get done with all the distractions they have at home, but unlike the others, Connor gets a pass for that one. Rightfully so, because the man has a lot more responsibility than his colleagues.

He has a toddler to be looking after all on his own while his partner is on a trip provided by the establishment where they've been interning.

"Alright buddy, it's you and me against this fu...." Connor cuts himself off on time, "...damn case. Come on."

With that, he sits the five-year-old in his lap, turning the TV to a cartoon channel as to keep his son entertained while he rifles through a few more files before calling it a night and turning to watch cartoons himself.

He's just flipped to the page of the file with the press-taken pictures of the day of the first trial taken outside the courthouse. Most of them have captured the plaintiff and the defendant along with his previous lawyer.

Basically, this man's wife is suing him for supposedly embezzling portion of her half of their joint company's income. He's sworn up and down to every tabloid, every journalist and even everyone in the Keating office that he's had nothing to do with the embezzlement that has been proven to actually be taking place behind the scenes.

As Connor's reading the recounts of what went on before, during and after that trial, a little finger lands on top of the attached picture up above the typed out writing.

Looking up, Connor chuckles to himself, seeing that his son is pointing to the bright red jacket the defendant's wife - or now presumably ex-wife, is wearing. "You like that jacket huh?"

Turning the page, he's met with the pictures of the second trial that happened within months of the previous and was the last one the defendant attended with that lawyer who claimed he was a lost cause and dropped him before her career could get ship-wrecked. Why he waited four months before contacting Annalise is a mystery but, if Connor's to be asked, he believes the man is actually guilty. They've brought up too much concrete evidence for him not to be. And he knew that. But he's now restored his determination to not pay the large sum he'll be owing his wife (ex-wife) if she wins the lawsuit.

As he's reading through the recounts, his son once again takes it upon himself to point at one of the pictures that are pinned at the top of the document. His dad has an idea of what he's pointing at before he even looks up, "Ok, ok, I promise to get you that jacket for your next birthday." It's only after he looks up that he realizes that although his son's pointing at the same jacket as before, it now resides on a different body - the attorney's.

"Wait a second..." He mumbles, aware that he's grasping at straws here. There's a big possibility they both own the same or similar jacket. Which is exactly why he quickly flips back to the previous pictures to compare the two.

It's the exact same jacket. It's the same fucking jacket, holy shit!

An emblem of the designer on the bottom of the right side - check!

An identical seemingly cigarette burn mark on the left sleeve - check!

An indent in the leather around the collar - check!

"Oh my fucking God! They were working together!" Not minding his vocabulary anymore, Connor carefully picks up his son and sets him down on the couch next to the file as he dashes to grab his phone and dial Frank. While it's ringing, he makes a point to kneel before his son and give him a kiss on the forehead, "You, sir, just saved your dad's life. You're getting ice-cream tonight."

"You're buying me ice-cream, Walsh?" Frank, who picked up a moment sooner than Connor expected, says with upmost confusion.

"No, but I think I just solved your case. Sorry, we just solved your case." He quickly corrects himself before sharing a high-five with his son.

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curiousconch · 3 years ago

Text

Chase You/Chase Me (Pt. 4)

Part 4: The truth will never lie to me

Catch up here: Series Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Trapped in a conference, Gabe and Alex bask in the afterglow of their interrupted moment by the lake. But before Alex can fully comprehend how she felt, she unravels a truth that may cease the chase altogether.

Book/Pairing: Choices - Laws of Attraction / Gabe Ricci x MC (Alex Keating)

Words: 1.8k+

Rating/Warnings: Mature (16+) / alcohol consumption, language, implied sexual content. Reader discretion advised.

Author's Notes: Surprise! Yep, it's an early release! I made revisions to fit the ongoing narrative and ended up breaking it down into two parts. Also, this series may span longer than I originally intended it to be, not wanting to rush things. It will probably extend until Part 7, depending on what happens at the finale. I do hope you'll still stick around. If not, I'll totally understand. 😉

Disclaimer: Most of the characters as well as some dialogue belong to Pixelberry. I am merely borrowing them.

Late night, Boston

Shoe laces, cool wind and the darkness of the forest enveloping them. His breath shuddering with how close her lips was. His throat running dry.

Wanting, longing.

Just a little taste to find out how intoxicatingly delicious those cherry lips would be in his mouth and to feel the heat of her body against his.

And then a splash.

Gabe blinked as he felt ice cold liquid pouring over his crisp white shirt. He wasn't sure if he was having déjà vu.

"Oh, sorry mate," a man standing nearby had bumped into him, making the glass of scotch he was drinking shake and spill into his impeccable suit. He forced down the tasteless curse words forming in his mouth, groaning in frustration at the dissipating sensations from what he had been imagining.

His mind was stuck in an endless loop, replaying the romantic encounter with Alex just the night before. But very much like after Beau's dive into the lake, his consciousness whipped achingly back to reality.

Gabe was leaning on the mobile bar, set in the middle of the conference reception. Did he just lose himself in a daydream like a fool? He wondered, murmuring through his madness.

The time alone with her provided him a glimpse of what could be between them. And oh how euphoric it had been to have her so near, to watch his body respond to her like no other.

It left him just craving for more.

He was lying to himself if he continued to deny that he has feelings for Alex, and how deep he was already in for her. But he knew it wasn't meant to be, at least until after he admits the truth. Until then, he had to pull away.

Easier said than done.

For now, he settled for a view of her, his eyes scoured the room for the subject of his fancy. When he found her, Gabe couldn't stop his smile and the fluttering of his heart, or the warmth growing between his legs.

There she was, in the far side of the room, shining brighter than any star that they had seen in the night sky. Her audience completely captivated as he was with her.

The sight of her in that blue dress swept Gabe back into his fantasies, and how infuriatingly near he was to giving into them. He had to clench his fist around his tumbler, suppressing any trace of his earlier wild thoughts.

Apparently sensing the weight of his gaze, Alex turned to him, their eyes meeting in silent conversation. He watched as she excused herself before making her way towards where he sat.

Half-smiling, Alex's confident expression as she approached him made him swallow hard.

Gabe summoned all his willpower to rein himself in as she got closer. He plastered his usual cocky smile, once again putting up a wall of professionalism. They were in a conference, he reasoned.

"Still watching your wards, old man?" Alex chuckled as she reached a seat beside him.

"Working the room like a pro like that? Very hard to ignore," Gabe interjected, shaking his head. "Had to say Alex, I'm impressed."

"Glad you noticed," she smiled, clearly enjoying the compliment.

"Frankly, you charming the top tier lawyers were hard to miss," he said, with lips quirking into a grin.

"Were you watching the whole time?" she asked.

"Difficult not to, seeing how you're the best-dressed lawyer in the room," he continued, savoring the easy conversation.

She scoffed before turning around, grabbing a napkin from a bartender. Alex offered it to him, pointing at the light stain on his clothes.

He finally muttered a curse, realizing he had been too distracted not to notice the result of the spillage from his own drink. This was one of my best suits.

Gabe almost jumped when Alex started to wipe the front of his suit.

His eyes narrowed, unable to process what was happening. On impulse, he reached out to her, encircling his palms around her wrist. Alex snapped her head up at the touch, the intensity of her gaze enchanting him.

It took all of his strength to break free from it. He cleared his throat and looked away, before grabbing the napkin from her grasp without warning.

It had always been like this. At first, there was this fluidity, a natural attraction between them while they interacted. Then another goddamn minute passes and it all becomes downright complicated.

Gabe wasn't having it.

He briefly shut his eyes closed and released the breath he was holding. When he opened them, he focused his attention on wiping the stain from his jacket, avoiding Alex's questioning gaze. He decided to divert the conversation, robbing her of any opportunity to re-capture him in a trance.

"Don't worry, I don't judge potential partners solely on congeniality. Though I can't speak for Sadie." He then turned and discarded the cloth on the bar. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll have to speak to a friend who I'm sure will be thrilled to know I'm now a partner."

He finally dared to look at Alex with almost apologetic eyes, before swiftly walking away towards a sea of unfamiliar faces.

Alex was left gaping at his hasty departure, uncertain how it all went south so quickly. She wanted to grab his arm and pull him to her so badly, to pick things up from where they left off last night. From that moment when his lips was inches away from taking hers, before they were interrupted.

Her body ached to be near him. Then again, that's not how she usually operates, so she let him be.

She had never thought her idol was such a tease. Or perhaps, traditional? Alex snickered. Oh how I'll make you beg, Gabriel Ricci. She exhaled, the sultry thought of the man on his knees in front of her suddenly hiking up the temperature in the room. Alex had to fan herself to cool down.

Along with the idea of finally spending some alone time together, conjuring the image of waking up beside Gabe excited her. Well, if ever this chase between them actually culminates to something.

But why was she following this trail of thought? In all her conquests, she had never stayed for what came after. She had that with Julian, and look how that ended. For her, it was always just for the fun. So why does she suddenly liked the notion with Gabe? She shuddered. Ugh, weird.

Maybe it's because it's taking the long game with him? Alex didn't want to know.

Leaving that for now, she resorted to ordering another shot of patron to drown the remnants of her heated thoughts. On her third glass, Alex heard a familiar voice ordering a shot of bourbon. She swiveled towards it and caught sight of Lina Reyes, the opposing lawyer from the Willow case.

"Fancy meeting you here," Alex smiled lazily, remembering how temptingly attractive she was. She also recalled the offer of a hook-up, which she politely declined out of courtesy.

But now, seems like she's getting another chance. And with Gabe being annoyingly hard to get, Alex had to have fun somewhere else. It's not like she and Gabe was committed, right?

Lina scooted closer to her, smelling of a heady mix of alcohol. "Speaking of fancy, damn. You look more incredible than I can remember, Alex," she teased, provocatively arching her brows at her.

Alex quickly picked up Lina's attempt to flirt, stoking her bruised ego. "Gotta be dressed to impress, right?" she waved her fingers as if in curtsy. "Enjoying the conference?"

"At this point, things tend to devolve quickly. But I do plan to have a nightcap back in my room," Lina smirked, Alex feeling the heel of velvet pumps brushing along her bare leg. "Maybe you could join me?"

The woman wasn't exactly subtle, though Alex had to give props to her for her confidence. She liked that in anyone. So Alex returned the gesture, letting her fingers hover an inch over her arm while batting her eyelashes. Two can play that game.

"I think we should stay here."

Wait, what? Did she just say no? Subconsciously? Did hell just freeze over? Or did her brain left her head?

Both women blinked, unable to determine who's more mortified between them. They were both quiet, until Lina broke the awkwardness by a chuckle.

"Had to try, didn't expect I'd be turned down twice," she said consuming the rest of her drink in one gulp. "Worth it though." she shrugged, ordering another round for herself.

Alex struggled to compose herself, brows furrowed in confusion by how that went down.

"Oh don't be so bothered, you're not my first rodeo." Lina poked at her jokingly, clearing up the air. Alex thanked her, and the conversation went smoothly from there.

Several more drinks in, the two women chatted on, venturing into a variety of topics in law and in love. It didn't take long before Lina started to slur in her words, to which Alex found amusing.

"Looks like someone didn't pace herself," she observed as she sipped her cocktail.

"Ah don't mind me, had to cleanse my palate after all the boring sessions earlier," Lina toasted her glass on hers, wobbling as she shifted to face her. "We are a rare breed, us fighters," she leaned towards Alex, lowering her voice to a whisper. "We like-minded women should just stick together, you know?"

Alex was relieved she turned her down the second time. Barely listening to her, she started to drift off as Lina continued rambling on, turning around to face the crowds as her eyes tried to locate that handsome man. Alex smirked when she found Gabe's sexy outline.

"Lot of ungrateful dipshits being freed from prison, even after we work our asses off proving they deserved an earlier release. Khan, Kozlowski, those celebrities involved with the Ivy League admission scandal? Hell, even small town criminal Cornell was released in the last five years alone!"

And with that last statement, Alex froze. "Say that again?"

Confused, Lina stuttered as if she can't remember what she was saying. To Alex's annoyance, she went silent, apparent that more humiliation was on the way. Lina abruptly stood, covering her mouth with her hand as she sprinted to the bathroom. Alex let her pass.

Assured that she'll be fine with her colleagues flanking her, Alex started to obsess over Lina's last sentence.

Was that just the patron? Or am I getting too drunk and starting to hear things? She asked herself, bewildered at how randomly Lina mentioned a Cornell.

With an exasperated sigh, she decided it wouldn't hurt to check. She pulled out her phone from her purse and fired up a search engine, where she typed in the godforsaken name. Alex tapped enter.

As soon as the results loaded, she felt the world crumble beneath her.

No, no, no, no, no. This fucking didn't happen.

She clicked on one of the articles from a local news outlet. The picture beneath the headline shoving her nightmares front and center. There it was, the title written in bold stated loud and clear: Cornell Son Gets Early Release.

Alex bit her lip as she fought to gather herself together, speed reading through the article. This was definitely a surprise, but what really got her reeling was the figure of a man walking behind Maximilian. She'd pick up who that was from anywhere within a mile radius.

Alex tried to keep herself rational, but the shock rippled through her, enough to shake off the alcohol in her system. And why did her stomach churned like she was punched in the gut a hundred times over? Why did she felt fucking betrayed?

Unexpectedly, she knew it wasn't discovering Cornell was now walking freely in the streets.

Deep down, Alex was aware it was because Gabe Ricci was involved. Either way, it looks like her high and mighty boss has some explaining to do.

Her blood boiled, a myriad of questions went through her mind. Resolute, she wanted those damn questions answered. Tonight.

She downed her drink and slammed the empty glass on the bar, sending a text to draw Gabe's attention.

She looked over where he stood, watching the frown in his face as he read her message. She clicked her head, beckoning him outside.

Even he can't fathom the fire storm that was about to come his way.

Author's Notes 2: Thank you for your continued reading! 💖 How do you think things will go down next? Let me see your reactions on your comments and reblogs!

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